Archive
02/18/09 - (2)
Tombstone
These days, we brood over the profound intimacy With which we know economic apocalypse — The end of boom-town Tombstone's love affair With her cars, her credit cards, her houses of cards. And we're sad that our bluffs have been called, That we've had to fold, throw in the chips, And are moping in the Grand Hotel saloon, broke.
All of us are suffering anxiety, depression, Lamenting the loss of our beloved way of life — Indulging our excesses, insulated in our bubbles. We mourn the end of a dizzyingly giddy ride, When all the signs were aligned, Before rapacious flimflam financiers swindled our trust, Taught us that faith isn't sacred,
Rather just another shabby, sleazy shape of hypocrisy, A glass snake dangling from a cactus, No different than a spitting cobra in a croker sack Or a wolf in the emperor's new three-piece suit, When it comes to fleecing the powers-that-be sheep. Tombstone is smoldering after its second great fire. The stakes we play for are cinders and ashes.
02/18/09 - (2)
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