The poem opens in a burst of noise and color: "screeching NYC macaws," a strange, vivid image of the city as a loud, crowded aviary. The "clothesline to oblivion" suggests a life strung out and heading nowhere, hung up like laundry. Then comes a flat, bossy instruction: "Move to Hollywood."
What follows reads like a mock daily routine. You get up, pull on your overalls, and chop down your own fruit trees. The last line is the jolt. It sounds like a simple, homespun country morning, but destroying your own trees is self-defeating, even a little absurd.
The speaker seems wry and teasing rather than sincere. Judging by the tone, the poem makes fun of escape fantasies, the idea that a change of place will fix things, while hinting that we often wreck what could nourish us. The mood is jumpy, comic, and slightly uneasy.