Bank American Blues

The pedestrian road rager

sat down and listened to the deaf man,

can to string to broken cracked can man,

confessing he worked with Steven Spielberg's dad

in 1957, when they were drumming up plans

for a main frame computer program

to undo the earth, the heart, our American home,

from Huns to Hunstra, who came to a Southwestern

desert, house-built by the mob, dreamed up in Vegas,

to the compromised creosote landscape

of horny toads and rattle snakes nabbed

in trash cans, tumbleweeds built up

along fences, a witch hunt for the wilds;

He who came to town for General Electric,

He who died on a Sunday afternoon

in a small plane crash in New Mexico,

flying back from the East, when Gee Hee,

very shortly thereafter, gave up on taikos

and the remaining Promethean games

games to come, working for golf putter

designers, golf coursey hunters of the bank

of American dreams as I now enter

the sleek confines, the cat box catcher

of red and white walls and fixed furniture,

with not much blue anywhere, not much else

but blue type spelling "Bank of America,"

lots of beeping noises, alerting the authorities

of the dangerous Danton armed to rob you,

with his big ass damn scary pen, strange

and haunted, shell-shocked eyes,

home loads of red, charged off years ago,

in overdraft fees that should be given back

to the people you croaked, the dead peasants

you croaked with check systems given out

like blankets to nineteenth century Apaches

to gather accounts made up of less than zeroes,

for third-party collection companies,

as the wind cries Mary ...