His head is on fire in a terrible fright.
Smoke can be seen wafting out of his ears.
The stink of desiccated arms, legs, breasts
and bellies is everywhere.
The pith of his soul trembles—
what kind of chicanery
have the politicos done to us?
He’s surrounded by deafening silence,
smothered dreams, and a tarnished mirror
revealing the many faces of death.
His world is empty and unused
as a saloon spittoon, in a landscape
bare as a banker’s bald head.
A wind blows hundred dollar bills
through the leaves of barren trees.
Gold Kruggerands bounce along
deserted sidewalks and streets.
There’s no live fish left in the sea,
no corn standing in desolate fields,
and not a drop of water to drink.
He tries an Ojibway’s rain dance,
grunting— whoha, heeho, hahhah
to the beat of stone on stone.
He’s so lonely, he forgets how to cry—
all he can do is bang his head against
what’s left of a Bank of America safe.
He used to think he was the loneliest man on earth.
Now he knows it to be true.
All he wants to do is search for the love of a woman—
even a friend will do. He longs for the perfumed air
of the past, and promises to love those who don’t love back.