A cart of just bread and peanut butter is
all that’s claimed to calm an empty stomach.
A palm’s in a puddle of pocket lint, but I’m in good
company with great miracles & super market trinkets.
Leaflets sell-out which stars wear plastic tits, or
announce who’s dried in rehab: skinny addicts to fat-as-ticks.
Tabloids, the saviors of print,
sponsors selling miracles saving man.
only criminals, thick puddles, and tough postmen
are on the streets, they each cross condom boxes,
on road sides pulled apart like cardstock crosses.
the aisle advertises Low Calorie Lasagna for Me,
packets of chemicals and chocolate consumption
sugared morsels that invite ‘Vitis
as the line grows long, like a corpse’s cuticles.
Recession’s on our mind, and together
we forget how to laugh.
In the holy union of human togetherness,
we stare into what’s placed
in private baskets —
the gross miracle of man makes the line
a stain on our minds, as
shoppers seek assurance like
they select frozen peas.
Wisely, we know about nothing but information
Not a nugget in any noggin of wisdom.
I flex my ass cheek to check if my
wallet’s still there—
It’s pulled out to pay; my money’s given to
a slick and soggy foreheaded kid, who quips,
a quick slightly mixed question and demand,
‘Would you like to donate $1 for Disaster Relief?’
Only the miracle
will save man.
So I save my dollar.