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