Walking toward the phony duck pond
made in a one-pony subdivision
in some desert in Southwest America,
pit, plotted, planned, cheaply
made by a dishonest developer
who eventually rotted in a jail cell
for a lie told to rich old maids in NYC
because he had promised lakes
pumped from a river, rotting dry,
like the pond now, where geese
have gathered and school busses pass on by
along winding roads
lacking sidewalks, lacking
thoroughfares for little children
who would be O such a shame
if run over by said same school busses
because there's only one pond
now and empty electricity boxes
still haunt the highways lined
by properties illegally lot-split
by old Ned Warren; he who
made a mint, who sent postcards
back East promising paradise
to a lie, no, overstating,
but nevertheless sold out by some
now laying duck in Washington D.C.
But you he are who walks, talks tax-paying duck
now, that Walmart greeter,
and today I found
the most previously
nasty thing I'd ever written:
That senior citizens
were considered to be
the most dangerous
creatures on Earth
because they have
a piece of paper
from some laying duck
in Washington D.C;
but this book, see,
Freakanomics,
(so now I have independent confirmation)
also made a mint
with such carefully
rendered lines
as "superpredator
versus senior citizens,"
thus making its mint
and, of course, target market
We walked toward the duck pond
wolf hairy, feathered, lined with brown scum,
candy bar papers, car parts,
beer bottles, broken plastic
parts of Pez dispensers,
left by school children
who could now give a fuck
because their daddies cheat
on tax returns sent to other
cheating fucks who could
also give a shit about you, me:
I've got one blank sheet of paper
downloaded from a Web
made of ether, all created by
one lying duck in Washington D.C.
The pond is peaceful now except
for honking echoes of bright green mallards
who haven't yet turned greedy by little old
men who run the world,
throwing out bits of bread from porches
overlooking fenced in portions
of an artificial landmark, made of water,
promised to them, or, people like them,
who were once promised refuge
by long-dead Ned Warren
that such villages along the Verde
lined with steppes still cluttered
by Apache hand bones still clutching
single pieces of paper signed by
some laying duck in Washington D.C.
Property. Property. Prop. Prop ... er, Tea.
II
I've got a stack of papers
I can't get to because the one
I love goes into fits of grief and rage
over invisible digits of cash
that disappeared into said same ether
and now those lone gone meat locker loins
must be beefed up again to make up
for the losses caused by greed-head Bernie Madeoffs
who lied to little old ladies and mere millionaires
also rendered lifeless by empty promises made
on eight-by-eleven sheets of paper
signed by laying ducks in Washington D.C.
and not one damn sheet on the dirty old paper pile
will ever work in my favor, so why bother?
Property. Property. Proper tea.
And turning off the rounded lanes,
we have ourselves a polite little party,
laughing ourselves into parties
celebrating the quail who slip in and out
of artificial worlds
lacking sidewalks, where we find a well-worn
trail trod by anarchist atheists misled to believe
there is no god when in fact there is, but, hell,
they are actually referring to the demiurge churned
into trash lining the bone-dry portions of the pond,
perfected into a beautiful life-saving reality
made easier to believe by some duck who lied
in Washington D.C. ... but the dead can be brought
to life no easier than the muck can be raised
to rinse the once-clean waters of the Verde
And off the road, where the Mustangs and Escalades,
made mavericky,
speed on by,
rolling on gasses, endangering
school children, lacking sidewalks; who run
home to play on point-and-shoot games
because there is no place to play
in the faux hopes made by grey old men
who promised paradise to little old ladies
in Washington dee see of we sing ... off the road
there's this well-worn trail only misfits
like me can see or be and she now crouches
to peak into the weeds and sage to hear
the cackle of pheasant hens rendered
accelerating life force made mad by the Sun,
which is overheating now, in mad pulse paces,
mixed in with Venusian skies, pitiless star gazes,
and we move on between properties, made proper,
by little pieces of paper, now lining cages,
feeding parrots who repeat perfect truths
made so by Madeoffs advertising safe acres,
security mom spaces, relying on promises
made perfect by little pieces of paper kept sacred
by men who lie daily from remote high places
in Washington D.C. ...
Property. Property. Proper, E.T.
III
Among the many mistakes I've made
in my life is turning right, instead of left,
up this well-paved hill leading to
a manicured driveway ... So she,
who hasn't been outdoors for a month,
who might start screaming at any point
of the day because she, made of soft flesh, saintly blood,
is roiling with so little electricity in her head
her once-brilliant mind can only meekly protest
my attempt to blaze a new trail up this steep incline
leading to a canyon, along the steppes, along the Verde
And this Walmart greeter pops out from behind his usually locked door,
now doubt interrupted from watching Poppa rail and bleat
about how property is the momentary might ruining
the likes of me because only I ever saw the truth of a possible
pathway that, if placed into the hands of currently more
enlightened civic minds might form task forces
to imagine places where children might play
and both little old ladies in electrified golf
carts might pass as easily as javalina family trios
and rolling hungry hordes of courtly coyotes, but no,
the Walmart greeter has to pop out, a Jack of his box,
to ask me, "May I help you," inferring later, in review,
masked hostility, happily rendered now at me, a happy target;
and now I turn my back on his perky little puppy
barking out orders made possible
by a little piece of paper signed by,
this shit little paper signed by ...
this fucking shitty lie made perfect ...
I turn, the sudden wolf, and Toto runs away,
and big Him me, who saves the day
has his own damn sheet of ether now
along with the memory of this proper path
where there is a canyon made of crayons of what I know
about eight-by-eleven sheets of paper
signed by ducks who lie daily
in Washington D.C.
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