“Fuck Atlas,” she sighed,
pouring another glass of wine
and adjusting her tiara.
“He doesn't interest me nearly as much
as that dude who wandered through the dark
looking for an honest corporation.”
I didn't have the heart to tell her
she had it wrong
or perhaps she didn't have the heart to tell me
she had it right.
The Barefoot Corporation is slouching toward Bethlehem
and we are freezing to death in the heat of global warming
that cannot be agreed upon. Pundits quote experts
that I have no lines for, as the Expert Poem
has already been written and discarded
as inadmissible evidence
of this endless effort
to divide us along lines
that keep us in
always
always
always
unable to draw a circle at least
a hundred feet round
and use what we find within
to think our way
out
of
this
trap.
For G
