What I saw from the hillside overlooking the new Porter Ranch development, San Fernando Valley, November 1, 1997
Little white cars crawling away to work and shop.
Little matchstick houses huddled along the ridge, as though that would save them when the clouds mass and the hurricane of wind and rain explodes them to bits of plastic and melting stucco and washes it all down the gully, to pile up against the culvert dam, smashed beyond recognition. (Never mind, K Mart is open 24-7, we can get more.)
The flyaway tiled roofs stuck on like afterthoughts from a set of Lincoln Logs, will go first, making the air a blizzard of red dust, deposited evenly over a square mile of land. Great machines will roll over the Barbie bits and the Nintendo buttons and the Jeep Cherokee headlights and the exploded picture tubes and the plaster statues of David and the fire retardant drapes and all the glass and plastic, crushing and grinding it down to an indigestible sparkling colorless pyramid of trash.
Truckloads will carry it to the incinerators and the melted remains will be molded into cubes fifty feet square. Hueys will airlift them to Century City where they will be dropped, one at a time, until a huge tower rises up, visible for miles, teetering on the smashed Broadway Bullocks Macys Robinsons Nordstroms May Co beneath it.
From the hills, a glint can be seen from the tower on a clear day. Rain will soak the ground and fire release the seeds and animals drop their nurturing shit, and when the people who hunt and gather die, their bodies will return to the soil, and the land will slowly heal.