“An artifact is a cultural fetish,”
she said, breaking the vase over my head:
letting that dull crack be a knock-out
death knell tolling for philistines,
“for poetry seeks to find meaning
in approximations of language,” she said.
Tell-tale wisps of eye shadow merged
with subtle skin tremors on her cheek
trying to reclaim dermatological dominance.
Hey babe, you were an endangered beauty
words could never measure up to
the aesthetics of thought being abstruse,
to say the least.
The motions of democracy still fleeing
from Walt Whitman’s wilting beard
abrade the sacrosanct words of history
into a coarse mist of lost illusion.
“We need to rise up, nonetheless:
to take back the country from the grip
of corporate zealots & mad moguls.”
We drained dregs from icy wine glasses
& knew King Trump’s day would come
as dirty bomb fall-out obscured his tower
waiting to fall into neon rubble
the homeless scurried from below.