All roads lead to Saskatoon –
A warm, clear day,
As the air raid sirens blast at noon
Like they do on every Friday,
Stirring up the dust of some residual fear
Of the Ruskies
But it hardly rates a note in the drum
Parrot corps
Rolling the foggy bottom line
Lies of war,
Even invoking, in cracker Graham's
Public murder plot
The Owl Minerva Rule
To tell dark truths at sunset
When history is safe
To say
– And all the naked shorting
Calls to mind the Lehman weekend
Like suicides
In the brain stem
And the Fed façade disappears again
From rearing its mythic head.
It’s the March Mutually Assured Destruction
Dance
To the boundaryless:
Is money gold or potash, whole cloth
Spun into cotton candy?
“The transmutation of metals” --
The transmutation of souls.
New systems unfold while the gulls forage
In the old-world ways
When lack was poetic, the thoughts of others faint.
The whips of seaweed turn in concentric circles.
Kelp knobs deposited
could draw a cardinal’s curtains.
Haircuts lie in piles of golden insect wings.
Let the masses have their madness.
No longer any point to filling in their blanks
Though it is so sad to know and to know
So few have any clue about
Who tells them what to do
And why they do it --
New, more brutal technologies
To tell the same mendacious stories:
For the slaves commit the atrocities
So royalty doesn't have to.
The world disrobes its facial cloth
And unfurls the flag on cue
Of an imaginary country
That is everything people believe it to be:
Violated in the way
They refuse to see
Occurred to them
And since it is imaginary
There is catharsis in their sympathy
Which turns inevitably to suffering
As reality is turned more desperately
From the door.
But in reality no one cares,
No one really wants to know.
They are wise that way
Not to feign, junk sick with fake news,
To make out the minor
Geopolitico arcana
For the sake of harmony with a neighbor
Petrified and estranged though they may be
At the drum beat drawing blood
As the hypodermic needle did too, too recently.
They say your money’s frozen.
They feel you are a threat
Because you don't obey,
But that’s just the cover story, your opinion
Does not matter; it’s the money,
It’s not yours, it never was …
And what if that is, too, part of the Plan,
However duplicitous, for freedom,
A thing that is so remote
Everyone would go Mad as March
To think that what they had
Was called that.
Such wisdom of the dark has to be
Unveiled slowly:
Corn shortages, the price of oil in gold,
The final letting go of things,
Where the troubles began.
