Turns out T.S. was terminally tragic

in an obscure, strangely hopeful,

really difficult way to understand

from reading his pretty precise

poetry, but the proof is rock hard

in quarter notes, so thank heavens

for Cats, the musical, sometimes

in three-quarter time, so we could

whimsically see, hear, appreciate

the playful side of the laureate’s

darkness and, therefore, his

humanity.

Driving on the freeways of

Phoenix and Chicago and

the Interstates 10, 40, 70,

80 and 90, it’s not hard to

have a dystopian vision

of the late great U.S. of A.

In fact, it’s hard not to

conjure images of flooded

coastlands where billionaires

now swim 12^th St. between

Naples Bay and the Gulf,

residents of the Ninth Ward

do water aerobics all day long

in the streets, those who live in

San Antonio, Las Cruces, Bisbee

and Phoenix lounge in lush

jungles with anacondas where

rattlers used to slither,

Traverse Bay is a sand storm

desert between Petoskey and

the shores of Lake Michigan

and Sasquatch migrated to

Mexico just to make angels

in some snow not to mention

the recent news report on

scholarly studies showing that

no one trusts anyone anymore

about anything and how nothing

goes well with that kind of cynicism

as can be observed on the freeways

and interstates of the late, great

U.S of A.

Unless our present form of

capitalism (scavenger is apt) is

stopped in its tracks immediately,

within thirty years (that’s all.), it

is estimated that twelve, not eleven

and not thirteen, but a nice even

twelve people will own one trillion

dollars and, at the same time, 250

million counting from the bottom

up (and mostly the top end of the

the bottom) will own the same

amount. That means that

.000000048 of all Americans

will own most of the goodies.

Is that when the revolution

begins or will we have frozen

to death or drowned or died of

dehydration in the desert of

Alpena, MI by then?