poem of the day 01.13.11

poor mercutio

the man with the golden voice
was a homeless drunk
now he sits detained in los angeles
with scratches on his face
wondering what the fuck?

hard times have come
for america’s new star of the week

and the states collect taxes
on semi-automatics sold to kids
on the edge of sanity

just under ten percent for those bullets
bought at the local supercenter

and when he blows them all away
like in a gunfight from a neo-western
like those action cats on the silver screen
we are surprised by the carnage
shocked and awed, man,
by the grinning face of the ghoul
on the front of the daily papers

it gets us by the balls
and tugs until we fall over
in a fetal position

we have liquid dialogs about it
shout blood libel at each other
hold prayer groups in stadiums
hear speeches of no consequence
watch the pretty newscasters
spin vacant hyperbole
from inside the digital vacuum

we turn on the radio and want to vomit

democrats bow your heads
republicans you do the same

and from the peanut gallery
we sit waiting for someone to shout

a plague o’ both your houses

but it never comes

poor mercutio has said his peace
and has gone to his eternal home

yet the man with the golden voice
asks himself how come he’s already been
forgotten

replaced in the blink of an eye
by this fickle land

but don’t worry, my man
we’ll start stabbing each other in the back
again
next week

spinning the devolution
on three hundred different channels
sending the bile out
but using so very little broadband

slouching so effortlessly toward
the third world
with the grease of the torn flesh
on our hands and lips

our eyes as placid as
a trapped animal on the verge of death

the wall along the border
getting bigger and longer by the minute

hissing like a poisonous snake
about the strike.