The protoplasmic gun belt
hangs low on the hips of the world.
Shooting speed into cows
is the latest rap. Now they are lowing
the brain damaged mice to sleep
in their electronic cabanas.
A schizoid monkey presses
the wrong button and rockets go off.
It’s independence day at the O.K. Corral.
A host of wired-up babies
are screaming at checkerboards.
There is the cellophane mother,
doing her surrogate chores,
and the men who dance with rays,
pale and dark-eyed, like ghosts
of the future, abandoned
to heartless plans. The glint
of the badge will not blind the eye
of justice. Or so goes the song
of sorrow which ricochets at want
about the globe.

(from "Dead Box")