[Newspoetry] Poem

[Sam Markewich 2]

No more Newspoetry.
No, no more.
Had enough.
No more.

No more 
bicycle thievery,
particular ownership
is it productively membered
androgyny
shipped through customs undetected and unreported?
No more democrats and no more republicans.
Elections suck!

No more semi-quivering fenced in-out bogs.
Revolving doors know more: more than the wind they hurl out there is the
wind they force in.

No more experts running my life, or yours, or yours, or yours, or
theirs, or ours.  No powers, no days of yore, nothing 
never-ending-trampled swept backwards.

Paint over billboards with poison ivy.
Brain hemispheres, corporations about to merge, scratch heads together,
go up in flames.  Unfathomable, isn't it, what would happen if I smashed
every single lightbulb on that Coke billboard on Bryant Street?

NPR?
Fire them all
In two rooms.
Tell half their fired, and the other half, tell them their also fired.
They should've never passed over what that former CEO said about the
time they put the employees in two rooms, one for those about to be
fired, the other for the rest.  

Spraypaint "Truth" across the brows of pedestrians who don't know why
the chicken crossed the road.  Then, ask the chicken to carefully and
painstakingly explain it thusly:

"Because my father did
. . . and his father before him
. . . and

Outlaw all double yellow lines.
Outlaw every single thing that impinges on ones will to cop a u-ee.

Destroy geometric continuity:
progress is something we can't live with.

No, no more discussions.
About school testing;
About internet news .coms
About what the president and his wife did for things valentinian;
About the president;
About the military;
About how few Isrealies are killed each day with a voice that reads many;
About cute things;
About cops and genes;
About products, gross, national, or otherwise;
About an economic boom;
About any pomp and any single circumstance;
About sports and nice weather we're having today on elevators in
downtown Manhattan;
About the Nasdaq --  About all of these be it that we masses rise up a
Carolin', "The subject is closed!"

No more discourse.
There truly is nothing left to say.
All radical thought is distilled:
it is the only relevant science, and it has nothing left to say.

Do something for social change.

Until Greenspan does a spit take and the mint goes up in flames
Until bipartisanship burns Reagan in effigy
Until a person can walk down the street without the fear of the news
stinging hotter than the fear of history,

There will be Joe Futrelle, editor-in-chief,
standing in a heep of trash,
a single tear running down his cheek,
possessed by Nixon's purgatoried soul
and forced to have no other choice but to write about it.