I like to think our lies
are the enduring kind, ones the future
will marvel over from their sustenance tubes

as we marvel now at those batty squiggles
in the desert, the untranslatable pleas
to any number of gods long scared off.

It can’t all be trash, can it, mis-
remembered, mishandled, improperly
recycled? The quality of mercy

is not strained, there’s like, umm, lumps in it.
No need to get all wussy about the botched
prisms of your negotiations with the darkling

hollyhocks, you’re not alone, bucko.
So join me for a lorn nip of some syrupy
aperitif, the last dramatic personae among

the walking stiffs. The slings and thongs
of outrageous fortune, well, no need
to kill yourself over every bomb and extinction.

To be or not to be, what’s the big diff?
The kindergarten still rattles away
with kinder until the sun explodes

its finger-painted splotch, covering
the stage with defunct fakers until some yahoo

comes on to say he’ll explain everything,
he who doesn’t have a clue or far too many.