sunset magazine

The Journal of Western living or is it 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 rubber 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, 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 to take on the Russians or Picasso
armed with martini's and Marlboros.
Business is good at the castle in Anaheim,

and our friends in Tel Aviv, Tehran, and Guatemala.
Our 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 five dollars 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.

On the patios we lounge on cheap imported furniture,
rattan from Calcutta and wrought iron from Tijuana.
The spoils of empire surrounded by flowers.
It's a bargain, and don't we deserve it?