There is a Mad. Man still behind the curtain
pushing buttons, pulling string after string,
adjusting dials that don’t do anything
but make demands through smoke, reverb, and a
dismembered head. The only thing that’s certain
is that although exposed the process will
continue, for this is America,
a land so big that only dreams can fill
it with products that prettify the face
or drape the walking dead to seem less mad
and help us land a spot on Melrose Place,
plus other wondrous things I wish I had:
a heart, a home, the nerve, a bit of brain,
and the power to purchase them again and again.
