Tuesday

Tuesday.

World War Four.

Day two.

No panic in the martini bar,

just jazz and booze

stainless steel, mirrors, and black velvet.

Murder to death all the sadness, kill the pain.

Arm the ordinance with ballistic confetti.

Dress the generals in clown suits.

Give terrorism a bubble bath, and give all the presidents easter baskets.

Disband the corporations.

Make compulsory everything not prohibited.

Build a big coffin and fill it with the humans,

then there will be world peace.

Puritan America, burning through the fabric of nature

making, consuming, and discarding

great piles of plastic waste

cheap to make, cheap to buy

but expensive to bury.

Plastic in plastic on plastic with plastic

and plastic plastic plastic styrofoam 

sheet plastic coated teflon ziplock tupperware magic

made by elves, advertising, and enough idiocy to float a planet in space.

As if the wasp in the washbarrel could tell us

why commercials are the best thing on T.V.

selling drugs and clean nonapologies for death.

Ahh, here she is

a cherry blossomed girl

promising the honeyed thrum of her hoo-rooing

to the best suited, shaved and scented cadillac robot.

Still, the bleeding eye

 weeping salty houndstooth tears

amid the hurrying waste

cannot change the fact that all the money in the world

will not buy an ounce of gravity,

nor will the din caterwaul spin

or the lies of history

replace a world

that is gone.