Poem: New Game

 

New Game

 

it was only weather,

the hydrocarbonous tilt of destiny.

so said the profiteers and politicians,

who gainsaid every threat.

 

they preferred chattel and a future of oil,

and a few tradeoffs down the clock,

to deeper, more susceptible speculations.

 

the surly clouds and the coy blue,

they were only playing a game,

trading pieces over our tragic race,

so said the golden king.

 

and so the people hid

from the prowl of consequence.

they lied about loss,

whenever a storm

swallowed what they knew.

fanaticism ran amok,

spreading wildfires.

 

it was a new kind of swarm.

arm-and-a-legs fell into place. 

everyone gave.  all those limp spines

bent low in shame, a whipped pyramid,

from poor to rich,

 

a new kind of idol,

 

a new game

for propping up slain ideals.

a superficial pretty.  Potemkin-esque.

this taxidermy of destruction

and deceit.

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