Palm Springs

Palm Springs. A white paradise. Manicured. Lush. Green. Tall palm trees, and too many golf courses to count. The wealthy reside here. The owner of Safeway. Bankers. Businessmen and businesswomen. Terra cotta roofs. Technicolor flower beds. The sound of a distant leafblower. The click clack of brown skinned workers, patching tiles, digging out grass. Their radios a constant norteño jive. Their floppy hats tattered and red in the desert sun. They are hard at work, building this white paradise. Themselves caught in the unfortunate spate of how-things-are. They are focused on shaving old paint from the deck ceiling. I am sitting before a fire pit, bottle of water in my hand, book in my lap. Jacuzzi water cascading into the pool. A lavish, almost bombastic display of eternity. A waste. The city has been in a drought for eight years. Most houses have installed artificial turf. But the sprinklers still come on. And the fairways have faded to lime. And every car looks new. And the city is a mere footprint of a history too tragic for public education. 


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