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letra de todd (taft) - mark abel

this town is dying

head west from the 5
through barren lands and tumbleweed
into the kingdom of the pumpjacks and abandoned houses
it is dry and the wind is raw
the temblor range broods in the distance;
a vulture circles the roadk!ll on highway 119

soon you enter this sad place
built on oil, hope and grit
named for a hefty ex-president
a downtown that once hummed is quiet now
so quiet that a single car passing is a major event
the shops are mostly empty, the sidewalks deserted

ghosts of commerce haunt these streets —
the shuttered bank branch
the extinct car dealer
junk shops open two days a week
the drugstore whose shelves are covered with dust
h-ll, we don’t even have a hospital here

shadows of late afternoon fall on the taqueria
its neon fl!ckering dimly as an insect comes to rest
at night, mysterious lights twinkle
from the midway-sunset
stars fell on alabama, the old song goes
but here they stay cold and high;
west kern is far from heaven
my father was an oil worker, and so am i
my friends have left for bakersfield
with its malls and subdivisions
they don’t want to live in a place that time forgot
this town is dying, but it’s still home to me

if history appeals, come ride along
there is elk hills, part of a scandal tainting harding
the lakeview gusher, 1910, america’s biggest strike;
just a small stone plaque now, surrounded by
broken bottles, rusted pipes and rotting timber

countless billions have been siphoned from here
but what was left behind?
you can drive right into the fields, just don’t inhale
we have a witches’ brew — poison gases, mists and pesticides
what the oil hasn’t finished, the cotton will
a bitter wind blows through this land

- mark abel

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