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A roadside vulture,
    atop a ravaged cactus,
    with an expired snake in its claws,
        victim of the Firestone's tread,

Faithful Aztec innocents passed this way
    long ago on their quest,
    today, would they have mistakenly
        built their miracle-city
        on this barren tract;
            U. S. (us) property
                keep out!

A procession of steel towers, frozen pilgrims,
    barbs the horizon,
    in pursuit of the seven cities,
        bearing gifts of power.

The asphalt umbilical sluice,
    glazed in the distance,
        empty --
    but for the carcass,
        an extinct species, Buick
        it's dyna-flow
    permanently lurches
        it's death-throe,
        having hallucinated that
        this was the promised land.

- Paul Malécot

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