Awning tattered loose in the wind
and rain; sunbeam marks a clot
of albumenoid sperm, half-drying
on the tiles. Prosperity’s banners frame
a concomitant rise in “lifestyle”
diseases, spotlit Mormon Tabernacle
card slipped into a first-grader’s
lunchbag; the smear of banana; redolent
moustache.
The war is the crawl
at the foot of the television
display, body counts ticked off
in pixels and automatic Nielsen
Ratings. Precious fluids, congealing
and refined, white as the gloves
on a lager heiress’s pilot hands.
Belts and webbing bulge the prosthetic
crotch.
Ahoy for the cities of ferries
and kayaks, waterways of Venice,
Stockholm, New Orleans, Amsterdam.
Aseptic Swedish beauty of straight lines
and white spaces, blips
of color punctuating the blank;
I hobble through the rain
on cobbled streets, lanes and closes
rising up at outlandish angles
from the puddled leaden
bay. The Vasa, dried and trimmed
and swallowed in gloom, haunts
its vast interior. It waits
to eat us all.