Don’t worry about this terrorist
or that; they are small potatoes;
they are just symptoms of that
which is scared and striking back,
blowing back against that of which
we should all be worried — Pluto
relentlessly accumulating, Pluto
grabbing the strings of the three
marionettes who used to make the
rules, interpret the rules, judge
the rules and administer the rules
but who are ruled and who now
dance deliriously through the once
hallowed halls. We watch what Pluto
decides to show; read what Pluto
wants us to read; we stay in our
homes while Pluto prowls the streets
keeping us “safe” and passive;
and we cheer the boys and girls
as Pluto decides when and where
and how the kiddies will fight the
boogeyman way over there so he
won’t come over here, and we stare
at our devises, take photos of our-
selves, look out our blinds and fear
that those who hate us for no good
reason, except that we are “except-
ional,” are coming to terrorize us,
torture us, hack our heads off our
necks with dull knives, pour propel-
lants on our pets, drench us in
flammables and strike a match first
on our children so we have to watch
them writhe in unbelievable anguish
and then watch each other incinerate
and vanish in a puff of smoke. And
Pluto, the downgraded planet, is a
rising star while everyone else flies
into Pluto’s black hole of poverty
and fear, but with no one there
for Pluto to pawn his wares, will
his rising star become a shooting
star burning up in the acrid atmos-
phere of his own flatulence
rising from deep in the earth?