crystal balls are just rocks

this is the truth;

elk-- four, five, seven-- stand tall atop flatiron kneecaps,
singing watercolor bluegrass to prairie flowers & cacti,

stumbling from bushels of pine needles, sneezing dank
into cicada breezes where owls perch in grandfather hollows
and talk politics over tea & marijuana cigarettes,

in the distance, concrete forests battle suburban wildfire,
coughing valleys of ashes into grazing fields,

men on the side of the interstate holding signs, yelling til
their throats stain metallic with hemoglobin,

preaching so hard their tortoise rim glasses double to keep
their eyes from popping like pills out of their sockets:

death to america! or god hates everyone! or honk if you're horny!

the passing cars, given that the vision of the driver strays enough
to read the coherent bits of sharpie propaganda, either honk
or don't, but continue nonetheless,

just behind the sleeping moon, a satellite takes a splash
in the big dipper, an overgrown schoolboy in a buzz lightyear
suit holds on white knuckle tight for the ride,

spittle slipping out the dimpled hole of his crescent smile,
burning alive with god & shooting stars,

across the ocean, men like large rubber ducks have struck it
again-- buried treasure & black gold & apex predators,

they get drunk on diesel fumes and sing:

jolly ho, jolly ho and a bottle of rum!

they scrub the decks with clorox blood, suds crimson with
martyrdom & bycatch--

such as their fathers, and their fathers' fathers,

at night, bear cubs & raccoon burglars club hop dumpster diving,
nibbling on scraps of grease soaked freedom,

the fumes curling nostril hairs, intoxication sticky & warm
like garbage disposals,

on tv, bronzed messiahs spread democracy with napalm & ak 47s,

charlie brown gi joe dolls have staring contests with the grim reaper
for national security breaches of morality,

a racist is back on neighborhood watch, while the nation weeps
for the face of an angel who would've been forgotten
had he not been gone,

we change the channel when the statistics come on because
they look too big to be safe, and we've heard that one before,

here, we don't like to think about it, there's too much drinking
& fucking & fighting & loving & leaving already,

so we all just sit around & get high-- because we like the sound of it,

like punching gravity in the face & hiccuping up into cotton ball clouds,
and it feels good, so we keep doing it;

this is the truth
& it's your story to tell