In the poem it’s as if we are digitally enhanced.
This adds to our spooky action, at a distance.
Fallacies in our narratives are now being illuminated.
Dali’s is the best, his whiskers free like a cat’s.
This allows us to internalize any capital gains
and adds to the creepy action, but doesn’t offer
‘a ton of faces that would be super familiar’
to audiences awakening to the vitality of retail therapy.
This says he showed up late, with an anteater on a leash?
(In their fright and rage, the people turned to a demagogue.)
And no one could understand his English?
At the end, some actors had to be aged backwards
in the dream, its images lobbed back and forth
creating meaning out of late capitalism’s
ravening hunger, its unconscionable hoarding
of excess, while others go without, the spittle
quickly licked away, its smirk sending chills…
All we can really do, is try and figure out a way forward.