That’s what they called it, the Band of Butchers,

When they strung our land in roads, stroads, streets, concrete creeks, and side streets.

A virgin land, sun-kissed, over-ripe, bursting at the seams for something, anything.

Washington’s wet dream.

The orange groves we grew up knowing came from overseas and was delivered to us in bouquets of dirt.

Portuguese monks birthed the Navel on Washington’s dime,

And the juicy Valencia’s followed Columbus.

Does anyone know what was here before the Orange Gold?

What know is that the Empire began with a Canadian

Who dammed the rivers,

Quenched the dirts thirst with snow,

And gave us the power of heaven and hell in a single switch.

Our giddy Band of Butchers set off and carved the land into

Rows and columns, shading off what’s what in a feverish daze.

Off they went with pylons and cables, netting the valley

As if she were any old hog.

Sun-kissed Washington, flush with pineapples from his Island-time

Laughed and anxiously awaited his bounty.

This one was special, a destiny manifested so he proclaimed

His Inland Empire to be the “Model Colony.”

Set out West, but not so West that the lawless rest;

The in-betweens caught, forgotten, transit, pony boys, braceros,

Half-way house citizens, leather hands caught tongue-tied.

Perfectly minute made, Washington thought.

Smokestacks and steel, leaves, waxen green, dry wind,

Orange, heat, dust, packed, screams, screech,

Leather hands, who’s hands, pinstripe lemonade stands, sickly sweet, refrigerator cars,

Off East, our Americana, someone’s Manifest Destiny.

What happened to this Orange Gold,

Our Orange Gold?

I am a subject of an Empire without an Emperor.

I’ve dreamed of a place to prostrate myself, and demand.

Launch rockets at his windows, set fire to the gardens,

Ambush the galas knowing who holds the blame.

I look around now and see the world that the Band of Butchers strung.

A gameboard spread out, pieces pulled by string

The smokestacks pillowing, and the engines roaring

It’s hard to breathe, and harder to know where to scream.

With our patches of dirt quenched, so gently caressing seven-figures

Bought at Stater Bros in capris just like everyone else,

We slither on the 10 and 210 in streams of red and white

Never really questioning who lives above, between, and below.

Subjects of the Inland Empire, spawns of the Model Colony

Are you full? Are you happy? Did you sleep alright?

Was your American Dream delivered in one piece?

Our neighbor Bezos can ship it to you same day.

From the peaks that watch over us, and the Rings that ping us,

the Serpent is well-aware. Here, seventeen over and over again

performing nostalgias in parking lots with hatchbacks

And Japanese cigarettes at the turn out.

Am I wasting my youth? My twenty two?

A future collapsed into home equity, a Flat Stanley

White picket fence cul-de-sac, his future bright because

He can’t look back or side-to-side. Mine too, a head in the sand.

What would you do if you were Emperor for the day,

Subjects of the Inland Empire, spawns of the Model Colony?

You can think beyond the windowless blocks colonized,

And the factory-made. Trust me.

I for example would set fire to the tracks before the robots come,

Feel my lungs fill up—freshness, re-freshness,

The smoke blown westward by our Santa Anas,

Whispering as she blows to dream.

I would set fire to the engines that roar so that I can

Finally see the faces of Empire set free.

Close the streets, Euclid a promenade with fairy lights,

Open flames, food, and live music on Friday Nights.

The 210, won’t be spared, I want a greenway that spans all 20 lanes,

Littered with reading nooks and cafes, a museum built out of glass

Where the deer and foxes can roam, the bobcats too if they behave

Let Mother Earth take over, she has a plan.

And what of the windowless blocks, and their billions colonized

Festering in the carcass of Kaiser Steel,

Where the factory made finds its home same-day?

I’m not sure, here wasting my life at twenty-two.

Breathe deeply subject of the Inland Empire, spawn of the Model Colony.

You are destined to dream too. Trust me.

Crane your neck and look around, behind too.

Please, dream and set us free.