A twisting, decrepit road,
snaking through a suburban wasteland--
littered with the metallic corpses of consumerism
I drive it, wheels shaking on the cracked concrete,
bumping up, down, up, down

pulse, pulse, pulse

Arcadia-- a paradise, poesia
soft, sensual, vibrant, free
I chug at the bottle of life
as if it is a rare wine;
I lie,
drunken in the Elysian Fields,
grasping for hollow green glass,
emptied long ago,
heart screaming:

pulse, pulse, pulse

I walk along Arcadia Avenue,
kicking pebbles between
the barbershop and the dry cleaners
Sliding silently through the
Valley of the Shadow of Death

Passing through crowds of hourglasses that
slowly trickle, barely a grain of sand at the bottom
I am a cheap stopwatch:
hitting zero at any second

Will you miss me?
pulse, pulse, pulse,
Will you miss me?
pulse, pulse, pulse
Will you-
line.