Tiny anorectic ants brazen as paparazzi
at Michael Jackson’s funeral undonned ratty
black ski masks and dropped their designer
sunglasses outside my screen door,
before I could scream ‘shake ‘n bake!’
echoes of ‘mission accomplished!’ rattled
my living room transformed into a nightmarish
seething volcanic lake, an earthquake
of itching and incessant bitching eons
beyond Richter’s wildest dream,
I’d been shocked and awed, awed and shocked
by this odd tawdry attack on body and more,
felt naked and alone as an old whore of a priest,
evidence stacked high up against him,
defrocked pilloried in stocks before acres
of peon believers lined up to judge in unrelenting
Italian sun at St.Pete’s Basilica with no way home,
these infernal scoundrel insects of the strategic
linear invasion bullied their egregious way
into my once quiet life, dissected my calm
like a steroided-out Yul Brynner at a hair
transplant convention for meth addicts
or worse,
even my blue haired Scandinavian grandmother awoke
in her Wisconsin grave by such madness and furor
such scratching and itching wailing and twitching
spoke to whoever could hear whether far or near
‘what the fuck, is our sweet dear homeboy shit out of luck?’
(Last time I looked judge and jury were
still out to a very late lunch.)
As I scratched with no plan no scheme
to survive this murderous unmerciful onslaught,
I wondered and hummed, murmured to my entrapped
dumb self as I took off the gloves, oh all powerful
god high high above, what hell on your earth
hath this day been wrought??
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