David Bromige
After Bernstein

["if I'd lived two more years,
I'd have spent more money"]

        There's a price
        we shall pay for
        remaining above
        ground. Just like
        we flew to Florida,
        it's gonna cost.
        "Desirable beachfront
        hotel or condo"--
        that's what your life
        must amount to, now.

        You wanna poke your
        head up outa the earth,
        like some prairie dog?
        Like some living dead?
        Some insistent zombie?
        Okay let's see plastic
        on that. Full occupancy
        ensures rates stay high.
        You could be buried in
        one of many mass graves.        
        Sprinkled with lime.
        Out of the future action.

        But (somehow--some
        secretary's social gaffe)
        here you are. So, whaddya
        got to say for yourself,
        Mr/Ms Living Tissue, huh?
        You're eminently replaceable.
        So far. We're barely waiting.
        The mere factoid of you,
        The Creation, palls fast.

        Those appurtenances--all of
        them--we can replace, & will.
        That pilgrim soul stacks up
        in warehouses globally. Our
        inventory embarrasses. So
        give it what you got plus,
        'cause we aren't in Kansas
        any more, no, nor New York.

        Hey! Your atoms persist--
        whyntya just check out?
        Space is at a premium,
        and evolution's draft picks
        were published yesterday.
        Godknows you're beautiful,
        lovely, talented, gifted,
        subjectively marvelous :
        but God quit the board
        in a snit. Hike it higher.

The East Village Poetry Web