The poles will melt, waters raise tides,
Planes will fall, planets collide.
The house of the future is the shtetl of the past.
A military coup settles the presidential caste.
Face it: Facts aren’t sexy. Gossip clogs
The Blogs, bleeding network slugs of static logs.
Reporters yawn, how wide and fat the mouth,
As cable comedians debate truth.
Crunching data in numbers so obscure
That only spy satellites know for sure
Who the target is when people riot;
The suits, an eye on markets, stay quiet,
Burn and trade essential commodities,
Protect property through mercenaries.
The bloody ball will not come down.
A plague infests this oyster town.
The trick to an accurate forecast?
Use fear of the future to idealize the past.
No one’s complaining about the champagne.
It’s the fifties all over again.
[Disposable Poem New Year’s Eve 2015/2016]