Propaganda
December thirty-first.
In suburbs, cities,
On back roads,
In all time zones...
Throngs flow
Like water through
Rivers of asphalt.
December thirty first,
The apocalypse floats
In a bottle of Coors extra gold,
I sip and remember
The present danger,
To be washed away
By bitter aftertaste.
Suddenly all heads
In Times Square connect
Through telepathy
Broadcasting still thoughts,
The roar withers
Down to stray coughs.
Ten remaining seconds
Coax Coors extra gold
To Re-enter the throat.
Times Square coasts
Atop silence,
And Everyone
There is
Columbus
Floating
Towards the edge
Of the globe.
© 08\16\99
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