Underwater
Everyone's got his or her personal gruesome, hair-raising version
Of the housing bubble's slasher-movie horror story,
Inexcusably flimsy, porous justification, rationalization, denial
As to how it came to be
That he or she was/is the screwed-blue owner of at least two houses,
If not to mention a stale-candy bowl of rental condos,
Unflippable rehabs, to-die-for growth properties that went south,
Just the other side of real estate's Hindenburg explosion,
Its 9/11 World Trade Center/Pentagon/Shanksville hijacked crash.
Everyone's got a friend or friend's friend, if not family member,
Who's lost his proverbial Klondike-miner's-Joseph-coat shirt,
In the American dream's three-car-garage garage sale,
Which continues to drain greed's wealth, with apocalyptic greed,
Leaving only its hungry, thirsty, greedy bottom feeders
To forage for foreclosed garbage, from Oxnard to Oxford.
And what's to be done with all the underwater deadbeats,
Who signed bargain-basement loans, in all-bad faith?
They'll hold their breath, wait to ride inside the next rising bubble.
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01/31/11 - (2)
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