Not My Share

We slip into the parody
of nations, ball parks in back
streets easy to the strip
tease, all blank tomorrows
between the river Jordan's
shoulder and fake smile
strangled in the birth
canal with umbilical cord.
The stick bugs of Pharaoh
in vast directions of flight
become a pre-emption
of parable in haute
twisting, haute history,
haute foreign policy -
all so haute in a beautiful
dying, a better wicked
and unhinged, stewards
of linearity. A voice
erupts into the norm psychosis,
a blatant not so obvious
flow of pingpong glamour -
a steadfast parade of boredom.