In memoriam
of the hopeless heart, eviscerated in glossy magazines on the day of the birth
of yet another child with the incurable life, impossible to escape, unforgiveable
to pursue the easy way out, even when that way is the only path to get in
to paradise, the carrot on the stick of our unending march, so we piously tilt
at windmills stretched out across our landscapes, masking the narcissism
at the root of our wanderlust, while confirming the rumored existence of fools
on talcum thrones, with their lemon-crusted smiles and footnoted opinions
on how lives should be led under the frowning glare of Our Father, who art
in heaven.