AN ODE TO THE CENTURY PAST
That was the age of despair, disrepair
of the damned and the condemned
but this is now, the New Utopia.
That was the time when we killed off our muses,
throwing their remains to the ravenous dogs;
our innocence disembowelled,
our hopes quartered
with five hollow-point bullets
on that cold December night.
When six million replaced six-six-six
as the accursed number of all eternity and
six million nameless faces,
six million faceless names
were extinguished for that greatest crime of all -
Existence.
But this is now, the Neo-Utopia.
That was the age of despair, disrepair
when raven-black sun
threw rays of shadow upon the Earth
and giant bullfrogs ate pygmy antelope
bones, hooves and all.
But still we fought on, hoping for meaning to appear.
Yet when it arrived, it was only in our dreams,
dissipating the moment we awoke
and grabbed at its gossamer threads
with our crude, clumsy hands.
And this is now, the Last Utopia.
DASHBOARD MADONNA
I told her the secret
in the story that I
never meant to tell,
it was good to get
rid of her soul,
it was always getting
in the way when
I looked in the rearview mirror.
We took a walk to the end
of town, which isn't
the easiest thing
to do in New York City.
She was well regarded
by the cab drivers.
She blew kisses to them
as we strolled past.
I covered her innocence
with my well-worn coat
leftover from my
self-respecting days.
I don't look back on those
times now that I'm here.
She was an easy ear
for a good line
and I long ago gave up
on putting out more
than a bestial effort.
I've seen a lot of ladies
in my head during my drives
through the uptown,
downtown,
go around,
but none as catastrophic as her.
I knew that the Yellow Cab Co.
had ordered the placing
of her picture on all dashboards,
so that she'd be the prayer
on every cabbies' lips.
Their medallions
were dedicated to her.
Her feet were blistered
by the time that we got
to the end of town,
which was nothing
more than the other
side of so many streets
that didn't seem to stop.
