An unmanned Russian spacecraft
is falling to Earth
and starting to cast the shadow
of Vladimir Ilyich Lenin
over people you’ve known.
Meanwhile, a butterfly walks
between flowers to stay warm
and out of the Himalayan winds.
But Joni Mitchell is still in
a coma as the rain just dumps,
batting a thousand protesters
in the head like a punch
from Manny Pacquiao–
it hurts to know nothing
but the truth and with a faint
Southern accent, tell the world
you will never go bald
because you spent your first
on Mars, blurring your vision.
Drilling a hole on another planet
is hard. But so is riding
a pet zebra through Central Park.
On the Fox five o'clock news,
getting famous and then blackballed
with your faint Martian drawl,
which speaks nothing but red,
white and truth when you state
to the President that being white
and privileged is rough–growing up
as a Martian in private schools,
playing billiards and listening to Liszt.
But now you’re reading Boswell’s
Unabridged Life to Joni Mitchell
because she’s in a coma and can’t
tell you to stop reading
about the considerable degree
of Ivy league success that’s now climbing
out of your ass. But I digress--
that’s what being privileged and white
does when you’re on top of Everest,
staring down and looking smug
at the avalanche you caused
by tapping the ass off your Cuban cigar.
Meanwhile, an unmanned Russian spacecraft
is falling down to Earth.
Over areas of red as rescuers rise
their toll of death and relatives seek refuge.
From Katmandu to Sindhupalchok.