Marching Orders


In a world gone crazy, we
place cows in the spotlight and
call them wise. Bowing before
bovines, we intone pale prayers
of the evolved, enlightened,
connected, fruitless faithful:

Lead us to the Promised Land,
Where life is easy.

Give us the answers.
Give us the goods.
Give us the pleasures.
Give us the words.

Lead us to the Promised Land,
Where up is down.

Take our questions.
Take our money.
Take our time.
Take our souls.

Lead us to the Promised Land,
Where all is free.

Make for us reality.
Create for us food.
Buy for us love.
Kill for us, too.




Joe is gone now, too.
At peace, they say,
with exhaled relief
that they can all move on.

They’d never admit to
wishing for his demise,
but it’s hard to deny that
it makes everyone’s lives
just a little bit easier.

O.K. A lot.

He was always strange,
upsetting every room
and life he entered.

The medication was supposed to help.
According to his dad, it did.
Of course, back then, he never
mentioned the side effects.
But there’s always a price to pay.

Maybe the world wasn’t ready for Joe.
He must have been born too early.
Given another decade, those scientists
surely would have come up with something.

Think of how much pain
could have been avoided
if his parents had known better.

Yup. Joe is gone now.
For the best.
It’s his mum that’s the problem.
She never would listen to reason.