COMMENTARY
In the crescent of black
under the Gestapo Buddha’s thumbnail
as he slits open the purloined envelope
of this present darkness,
in Africa, in Europe,
in Asia, the Americas,
the soldiers dice it
at the continuing crucifixion
and fire sale.
Under cathode mushrooms
in the binary forest,
the money elves dance on their fingers,
following the repetitive motion
of the dromedary syndicate.
Call 1-800-SYM-BIOT;
We urge you to cathect the prevailing jetstream
of copulating factoids.
This face storms, this face rains,
this face is partly cloudy;
when this face smiles, put on your dark glasses
or you may go snow blind.
The Prince of Pundits
speaking in parabolas, stretches his convictions
like Plastic Man, and snaps back
just like elastic.
The weatherman puts on a funny siren and howls an ad:
Is the plain of jars too lonely?
Tired of chasing banners
in the heat and dust and wasps?
Charon's ferry departs on the quarter hour—
We're going to Disneyland.
There you go,
into the cage with the rest of the leopard's spots.
Ready to trade in
that pound of flesh
for a slice of sky pie?
Cash in your frequent liar credits.
You too can take advantage of this special offer.
For a limited time only.
Dana Pattillo
Note: I wrote this poem late in the reign of George the First, if I recall correctly. But history keeps repeating itself. I dedicate it to Robert Novak and Karl Rove.
