DEMON CUM<\/p>\n
I<\/p>\n
He\u2019s the latest spawn of Hell II<\/p>\n The poem is reduced to a statistic III<\/p>\n Resistance wears a muu-muu now.
\nwith a lanyard and a notch lapel
\nand \u201cthere is no alternative,\u201d
\nas if nothing has to give,
\na stench of sulfur to intrigue
\nsome think-tank from the Ivy League.
\nGray-flecked beard and close-cropped hair,
\na ruin that\u2019s beyond repair
\nbut crying out for management,
\nrefurbishing, and rising rent,
\nbut atop primordial slimes,
\nan op-ed in\u00a0The New York Times<\/em>,
\na view where people look like ants,
\npaid by fellowships and grants,
\na Predator drone with mark on lock,
\nan unpaid intern on his cock,
\na data-driven genocide,
\na seminar taught on the side,
\na speech into a thousand mics,
\na million viral Facebook likes,
\na sociopath with lots of friends,
\na handshake that never fucking ends,
\na five-star meal, a rail of blow,
\nthe so-called former status quo.<\/p>\n
\nof lines and syllables, attempted tropes,
\nand stresses. Still, you should be realistic\u2014
\nyou\u2019ll hold off the degenerates with rhyme,
\nwith Ivy League credentials, and you\u2019ll cope
\nin little magazines, marking time
\nwith versifications of the status quo\u2014
\na plea for dialogue, an early snow
\nbeatified, a metaphor that\u2019s felt
\nin the flipping of a calendar,
\none more year before the ice caps melt.
\nIt\u2019s either not our fault\u2014or all our fault.
\nShake your head and grip the bannister.
\nHead to bed or dress up like John Gault,
\ncontent there\u2019s really nothing you can do.
\ncontent that all real change must start with you.<\/p>\n
\n\u201cYes we can\u201d and \u201cwe know how\u201d
\nbecomes your mother on the line.
\nYou tell her everything is fine,
\nbut she knows better. All the fuss
\ntakes on shades of Oedipus\u2014
\na tired old lady on a stage,
\nthe slapstick ending of an age.
\nDaddy Warbucks, Howard Roark.
\nA NASDAQ surge. A high-tech dork.
\nA mother-god is on the phone,
\nscolding you in monotone.
\nA shattered statue, endless sands\u2014
\na poem no one understands
\ndespite iambic clarity.
\nInside a tent marked \u201cVIP\u201d
\nour goddess goes back to her crypt.
\nThe tripwire, yet again, is tripped.<\/p>\n