“we, the undersigned”

The best of us are hanging from walls,
skipping stones along highways,
eating less than our share
and hurling our remains to the collective pile
of archaeological digs, sponsored by corporate hell.
Someday, all that will be left of us
will be the landfill,
the parking lot,
and sign up disks for America Online.
The plastic. The pulp. The surviving microbes of our antibiotic economy.
We contribute little resistance to the daily slogans
that politicians spew at us like oral enemas fixed to their windpipes.
We buy tickets to watch SUNDAY-SUNDAY-SUNDAY,
the Tea Baggers versus the Communist-Nazi-Muslim Regime,
in a lumberjack steel cage death match.
No.
We prefer the throbbing orange glow of a light post,
standing handsome against a Chicago skyline.
Beneath us, Lake Michigan crashes on rocks,
moving glass and pebble to the bedrock,
stripping naked, the iron girders, we trust like gravity,
but now watch diminished to rusted melancholy.
We are dying on beds of daffodils
and waking from our dreams
not as refreshed
as we are angry.
The billboards outside paint our historical atrocities
on the upper lips of our dark skinned leaders,
maddening those of us who long for the minstrel show
in front yard ornaments.
Gnomes in black-face guard our porches with pink flamingo antennas pointing at the nuclear satellites.
We are the generation of milk carton sorrow.
Of our fifteen minutes of fame grown to a ninety minute special.
Of reality T.V. and social networking overgrown like weeds along the train track.
We are the generation that spreads gossip of our planet’s destruction
on the same silver screen we watch Bambi lose her mother.
If you are still waiting for the end,
it won’t be long.
We are a blip.
We are a subliminal message snuck between frames in a movie theatre.
The severed penis urging the universe to buy more subsidized popcorn.
The affairs of our fore-fathers matter little,
while we, the undersigned, swipe our credit cards and marry away our daughters
for the splendor of working well into old age and into our coffins.
We sell advertisement space on our headstones
to call out to grieving widows, “trust in Liberty Insurance.”
“Here lies Matt Kane. Buy his book available on paperback, today!”

narrative poem written on 07-18-2010 by: on mattkane.com
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