poem: the human glory of political economics

there are times when I am fascinated by politics

and the rollicking play of the market is a sort of sweet

drug, made into a gladiator fight

between the two colored corners of this universe,

rushing always into bright contact and history falling

away in the process as little glass pieces

for children to pick up and store

among the seashells and pink summer hats. Because there

are also times

that the economy seems to me a dull hell, Wall Street an imaginary

game played by outcasts on soviet playgrounds, their child-hands

slipping around on the rust and exposed nails, exposed lines

of upticking stock

that falls just as the apocalypse might, the market shooting down

like the steep drop of a woman’s dress as she steps from the lace

to your bedroom floor,

her pink feet cold and beautiful on the wood. And elsewhere,

a man is shooting himself in the mouth

because an archangel won the midterm elections, or because the news

reported the sunrise story of a dictator

kissing his dying mother’s hand.

But I care more about this: that another boy

woke up from flannel sheets, deciding to become rich, join

the patriarchy, and marry a stupid

college girl who can’t say much about foreign policy

or production curves. But she

can kiss well, and the human parts of him lie awake

to imagine his baby crying

into the white breasts of this someone

who brings all the sex into politics.


My generation is just another morning glory,

pigmented with blood and technology, and meant

to color the starlight swathe

of Time’s whoring.


So I wish I at least hated the Systems consistently. Because when I

am indecisive, I am just like


staring down at a puddle and searching

for the human soul.