Archive
03/05/09 - (2)
Canvases
Could it be that the Dow, the S&P, and the NASDAQ Will hit rock bottom, drop through the first floor, Land in America's basement, like Salem witches in the stocks, Make their free-falling descents all the way to ground zero, Where they'll die, in crackling fires? How can I say? How can even our brightest economists prophesy Whether these gyrations in the "stocks markets" portend End Times Or just a correction needed to rein in greed's chronic irrationality? If any of us knew, we'd be Nostradamic gurus. In truth, we don't. And so it is, tonight, 3/5/09, That each and every one of us, worldwide, who's invested his soul, In the hope of setting aside retirement's nest egg, Watches and waits, with tense trepidation edging up on panic, To see which direction our expectations will take, tomorrow, Friday morning, when the "stocks exchange" opens, Find out if our fates are headed to Fresh Kills, on Staten Island, Or to the Hamptons' lush East Egg, Where we'll pray for Jackson Pollock to resuscitate our dreams, As he gazes, inebriatedly, into his crystal-ball drip paintings And tells us that all will again be well with the economy, That investing in such stupid, vapid, artistic shit-wisdom — An alcoholic's rantings on Belgian canvas — Is guaranteed to blow the socks off the recession, Bring back our giddy extravagance, our despicable consumption, Deliver us from the reality that the bottom has dropped out, Our way of life has been completely painted over, Fuels are depleted, sprawl is crawling on bloody knees, Cars are obsolete, bartering for food is de rigueur, People are living in tents made out of Jackson Pollock canvases.
03/05/09 - (2)
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