A plague blew up from Hollywood

masked in glitter and plastic,

swallowed readily by

them on the lines.

We coughed and hacked,

sick and decrepit marred by sores,

on our palms, on our faces.

Vericose veins covered our legs and arms,

but still we demanded more.

The wind blew from

Seattle to St. Petersburg,

Bali to Bejing.

We became like stray dogs,

fawning over them who didn't care

we existed.

Soon those who could, stood

and departed

flew away on gold and power

with the promise that they

would make us a better life.

What remained of Tinseltown

came to realize that every soul that could

would still swallow.

The gilded wind never stopped.

Then from the ocean and the air

those who were cast off returned

to say few words.

They repelled the glitter air

with soft whispers and a pale mirror

that showed simple truths to those who could

still crawl.

Few could.

Now it's a minute after midnight.

All the graves have been

dug and the dirges all sung.

There's been a new birth,

with blood and pain but the profound

joy and sadness that comes with unbridled possibility.

Gone are Creamsicile Summers and Hot Chocolate winters.

This is a world where the constellations are

the space between the stars.

But Dawn carries agony and ecstasy

on her slender shoulders,

there are already flecks of gold in the air.

But no man alive can say there is a world

worth having except for this one,

now at a minute after midnight.