Non-mantra in the commerce capital
By Peter Magliocco

 

the last nite of America unfolds
itself triumphantly like old glory
before anyone thought of burning it,
don’t forget the epic epiphanies
or the bureaucratic poetry committee
judging our every effort or afflux
in hearts of fungible whatever
the formication jetsam (must be)

truth

if not art, babe, so hit me
again and keep videotaping retro
cancerous&/or fiduciary plummeting

bonds

written off by the pontifical economists
in irreversible multiplications
subsuming all in arcane statistics
the headlines blare revelatory fantasia
for the highest Trumpet bidder
sounding off at the global economy

(say what?)

“the everyday fist of fiscals makes you
want to escape into poetry or
fringes of lurid sex crimes”
some infamous rapper chimed in
ranting at all the bourgeois vanity
dominating the commercial realms
before being wasted near the MGM Grand
he had no idea what movie he was in

 

nor how truth
becomes a torn confetti
of falling dollars

 

Peter Magliocco writes from Las Vegas, Nevada, and has recent poetry at Knot, Fevers of the Mind, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, and elsewhere. His recent poetry book is Night Pictures from the Climate Change, from Cyberwit.net.