We got to run for the border.
There ain’t no law and order.
It’s comin’ down to clowns wearin’ crowns.
The ultimate presumption
by bozos with this gumption
is we don’t got the sense to shoot ’em down.
On close inspection,
this here election
is westworld robots roundin’ up the herd.
They got our number.
The country’s dumber.
And money is the ultimate password.
The edge of a cloud,
when dark as a shroud,
can cauterize the day,
can sweep the blue to Timbuktu
and stain the sun away.
It can disguise the hour,
or else portend a shower,
and even alter
many minds below it.
It dares to smear the sky,
expose it as a lie,
and drive the point home:
you can never know it.
Sitting on the front porch of our cortex,
numbers shine like highly polished knives,
ready to just jump into the vortex,
bringing great precision to our lives.
All lined up in single file or columns,
marching through the tunnels of our brain,
there to scare out all the pot luck golems,
with their mathematical refrain.
One, one, two, one, three, one, two.
Clouds are white and sky is blue.
Nothing wrong these digits cannot cure.
Life is tainted, but these numbers pure.
No class on lawn tonight.
Too dark for prolonged concentration.
Please set timer for last lesson.
Return all books with pages cleaned.
Marks will be given, then taken away.
Thought cannot be taught or bought.
Graduation occurs at sunrise.
Somewhere between the felt tip and the ballpoint,
waving as its flag a typewriter ribbon,
lies in wait the dreaded inky zone.
Where fingerprints are commonplace
and stamp pads are the norm.
Where the badge of honor is a broken pen in pocket.
Where the fountain pen is king
and the inkwell still defines a way of life.
Where no one except martyrs should wear white.
And where the battle cry is still indelible.
Imagine a box full of answers
falling off of the lap of your god,
spilling out on the ceiling of this world,
where we look up and see them as stars.
While we’re ever unsure of their meaning,
as they flicker and tease us at night,
we are sure they have something to tell us,
and we long for this cosmic insight.
We build rockets and planes to get closer.
We have astronauts floating in space.
And we’re sure that the magnified twinkling
would reflect, circumspect, our lord’s face.
The modern world creaks to a halt.
The sun, frozen, leans toward darkness.
Apocalypse, now a presumption, a former abstraction,
demands a reaction, and the people must vote it down.
Across the oceans, our enemies amass.
They must be placed in words and categories.
Survival is dependent on proper identification.
Secret police walk amongst us and good friends may be spies.
All laws are subject to change. Outlaws cannot prevail.
We are the wild west and time is our jail.
In the old saloon, marshals and sheriffs fight off doom.
The riderless horse on Main Street is just a burning Escalade.
We are quite behind in this existence.
Ninety-nil is grim beyond persistence.
We owe, we owe, and off we go to earn.
The answer’s tinder; just how much must burn.
Wood, bark, limb, park, vested vail and forest.
Cede your ground without a sound, let nature be your florist.
The rich will never care about the poorest.
And criminals are men but for the jurist.
We tree into eternity to leave.
Departure’s much too easy to believe.
Ah, the cat speaks in riddles,
egged on by the birds of summer.
He screams for food some fifteen times a day.
He counts the seven doors and sixteen windows,
licking and scratching his numbers on them all.
He suggests that this cage of a house should be
cleaned, expelling a hairball to make his point.
Suddenly he’ll spy a clean pant leg, and dash
his paintbrush body up against the cloth.
Then he’ll moan he’s tired, jump into the nearest
chair, and promptly fall asleep.
Command control has seized the blue puddle.
All inhabitants are sworn to secrecy.
Thus ends a stressful string of twelve aborted missions
and a flurry of inactivity deemed painfully inappropriate.
All aboard will receive a fearsome medal
and a reluctant handshake from some retired quasi-hero.
No one can know the boundaries of this secret undertaking.
Maps and codes were, of course, delivered by hypnosis.
Everyone wore masks derived from Penny Marshall films.
And the trail of evidence was always covered with sequins.
This spate of colorful waters will no longer be tolerated.
Swimming and splashing have given the region a bad name.
But what that name is can never be revealed.
And the history of this action will be sealed for many years.