Cinemax After Dark (1994)

Miserable, erect men wielding briefcases like weapons
slip into their streamlined Porsches. They will drive
along Big Sur, or another hillside near the ocean, angry.
In the office towers, their relations with colleagues
bristle with hatred, and when they think they sweat.
You'd think they'd be happy, all that money, their wives
delectable as mousse dispensed on paper-thin wafers.
But their bosses drive them nuts. When they return
to that stucco nest egg, all chrome and aquamarine,
where their well-shod feet nearly trip on avocados
that have tumbled from the trees, they turn their cheek
from the women they will penetrate, their teeth gnashed.
In the act the house is shattered, the bedroom shakes,
vases of freshly cut flowers spill on the carpet
in slow motion -- then a catalogue of salable bric-a-brac,
a wind-up clock that is a brass temple, a tacky Buddha.
But it's not another California earthquake. It's life
broadcast on a cable movie. And can it be so horrible
as he rolls from her belly, more miserable than ever
and contemplates who he hasn't killed or buried
beneath the loveliness of sky, its moon a diadem or sliver,
all the houses conveniently apart from one another
so that neighbors need not speak more than is necessary?