The Missiles of Oxnard

And who would have thought that Marxism would lead me to this?

Pale bungalows tremble in the vastness of Pacific wind,

The sand of the Oxnard beaches,

Grace and grind into my shit Oxnard Pinto.

And only now do I stop to recall all of this and maybe more,

As I remember the missiles of Oxnard.

And who would have told me, could prophese this?

Not the nuclear Nazi with whiskey and leather,

Nor the cum-drunk bums of the Belly's trailer.

Trudy in all of her blubber could not have,

Nor the junk worshiping Fred and his Adrian,

Even dream to have foreseen my sell-out to this,

My movement away from New York, New York 10001

Head on and steaming West to paycheck and Zen,

Whose emergence was the missiles of Oxnard.

Who will hear me speak the words of the missiles of Oxnard?

The sea-rotten barracks of computerized hum, Civil servant scum,

The constant drum of grey government trucks and vans,

This junkyard Naval base and I ... almost one!

This old graveyard of war-junk and rust,

This fenced in little brain trust of dying minds,

Civil servant engineers, some friends of mine.

I suppose I don't mind all the scuffle,

The bustle of test-sets and universal test couplers,

The shifting of papers of amendments to releases,

of briefs in triplicate copy, co-signed twice,

All singing the griefs and the singular glory,

Over and over the story, the missiles of Oxnard.

I remember first entering scared bungalow 1220.

I, of meager salary and limp penis, starched shirt,

Wearing grey suite of mausoleum yuppie --

Sauntering in toward the computer room doom,

To gaze at vast oceans of electrons remembering missiles,

And government boon-doggle scams of monies,

Of hammy one-liners and dreary directives,

All clawed-out on terminals in networks,

Reaching Hewlett-Packard and all and all and IBM too,

All groping in greed for the Missiles of Oxnard!

Sometimes the missiles of Oxnard would speak,

Of course they could speak to me and to you,

Taxpayers and all, to us they would talk and chatter,

And cause missile commotion as battleship sperm,

Standard missile and milk,

Spurt from the bows of the Capitalist thrusts,

Complete with domestic spending cuts,

Sinking some well-oiled Arabic butts,

Or Sandinista Liberation Theology coffee-happy nutts,

And then inevitably descend as General Dynamics or Teague,

Demanding swift payment with contract and deed,

From Oxnard to Oxnard to bank accounts all,

Coveting green and spinning by me,

As if the Missiles of Oxnard were all.