Like a hoodoo spell that is spoken
to protect the capitalist sort
when the make-believe rules are broken—
it’s mumbo-jumbo upheld in court.
The ability for a lawyer
to assess the litigious peril
of employing a young Tom Sawyer
in a Niagara Falls barrel,
and in so assessing such a stake
of recompense owed to the father
if the barrel be of a bad make
and Tom Sawyer should drown in water.
Another thot-themed poet
with half of her cleavage bare
just so she can show it,
goosebumps perky from cool air.
Her fans gather to riot
and quick-click a thirsty Like,
if they could they’d buy it,
loving her poem posts— psyche!
They are a cluster of frogs
congregating around her,
scrambling with their key logs
to Like and Share and #her.
A whirling, bottomless rabbit hole
that spins with vacancies down beneath
sediment of history, the soul
of Mankind and all it may bequeath.
The plaintive winds rally and tear loose
all that a person might want to wear,
all they might think, the words they might use,
until they haven’t sufficient air
to speak, to breathe, their voices destroyed,
then their clothes, too, torn apart, now nude
as they shiver in the frigid void
their core now but clay made brittle, crude
without history, meaning, context—
a golem dormant, lifeless, perplexed.
Meanwhile the whirling voices still rise,
whipping up the harshest gusts anew,
concentrated from thunderous skies:
the bottomless hole a stagnant stew,
a vortex deep, Charybdian throat,
flushing down all that has come before,
all that is near and all more remote:
Mankind reduced to a hollow core.