Malibu

The cracked old streets
less inviting under the
gray skies,
cold stares inside warm cars
as the wheels turn like
gears in the head
The machine, not well-oiled,
and rusted at the core, still
taking turns, ready to crash,
seemingly against the wind,
as the meshing of humanity
collides like a 10 car
pile-up
Pay attention to the
proles, you engines of the
economy,
Before your streets run
red instead of black
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