sunset magazine

The journal of Western living or is it more of a Bible?
Where suntanned saints gleam bright smiles
in a promised land of chrome and tail fins;
but smarter and cooler than that, you know.

Bargain Bauhaus and ten things
you can do with pineapple or Spam
on endless august evenings
relaxing by the pool on foam cushions

sheathed in durable fabrics neatly stitched
by modern housewives who've been to college
but are still handy with a Singer sewing machine.
Those women, cool and coifed and garbed in sundresses

with just a hint of goddess Marilyn.
Those men: the dads are clad
in Hawaiian shirts, khaki slacks and shades,
with flat top hair cuts like fighter jocks.

They're brave and brash and young
ready for the Russians or Picasso
armed with martini's and Marlboros.
Business is good in Anaheim,

Tel Aviv, Tehran, and Guatemala.
Houses filled with light because
night never falls in Sunset magazine land,
perched forever on the cusp of day,

full of laughter and the clink of ice cubes,
six easy appetizers done in ten minutes, and
the gardens all have decks and blooms in every season
and a dollar still buys a lot of pussy in Saigon.

Mobil pumps a shitload of oil from desert sands,
and we still believe in voting, careers, and golden
anniversaries. The radio still sings about love,
lost or found or strayed or swooning.

Ob the decks and patios we lounge on wicker funiture
from Hong Kong or wrought iron from Tijuana.
The spoils of empire surrounded by flowers.
It's a bargain, and don't we deserve it?