Wednesday, August 21, 2013

Cargo Cult

I've become one of those people. The kind with a zombie blog.
Hello Russian women. Put on a balaclava and we'll meet secretly at the airport.

On the Box
After you drowned, your life
Was magical for a while, wasn't it?
Sexy portents, synchs, a couple
Of events some called miracles came
Easy as every breath. I could swear
I even heard a soundtrack. I know,
I was there, front row at the luau,
Picked from the tourist audience
For the cultural exchange demonstration.

Now it's all back to daily fucking bread.
And the chief, drunk on washed-up hooch,
Doesn't always remember to throw
Even that much out on the rocks for us.

You won't be happy until it happens again.
So you stack up your scavenged crates
And climb to the top and stand there.
All your calculations say
The big wave, it's on its way.

Photo: Poor, but Kathleen on the head of Shiva from the 1976 The Last Tycoon.