(for my mother)
Two fat chemtrails make an X
(marks the spot) in the pink and yellow sky
over 185 Pine, its third-floor browning window
glasses frame two disapproving eyes.
Those are mine.
Look here, on the stoop, a gypsy in the smoke—
waving in those greying tendrils, all the secrets
your uncle Sam wouldn’t want you to know.
I see you, flocks of Sheeple, tapping the insides of your arms,
your quadruple-seated strollers dragging you along
a street whose corners you never dreamed of knowing
Off to the bodegas for powdered meals,
back Home to fluorinated baby’s milk
or the empty taps we named our breasts.
Have you seen me, children?
cutting in line for society’s stamps,
eyeballing your mothers and their boy-friends
who know not the truth, so don’t blame them too long
for your future in the service sector,
the twenty years you’ll spend in queue,
vegetables spray-painted red and green in your baskets.
Please, little sisters, do not let your eggs be poisoned—
not by Big Brother’s angry prick,
or the Weatherman, who works nights obscuring the stars
with a cancerous fog.
Eyes to the sky!—this is what a quiet death looks like.
The King of the Sheeple orders in whispers, I tell you;
he’s kissed the palms of that malevolent ghost,
who made us weep that one September.
I wait for that first day in 2012, a beautiful chaos.
A chorus of underfed mouths, screaming
that they wish they’d listened to me.
I’ve heard the lies, known the truth, seen the future.
Come here, look into these crystal balls,
two blue heavens, two blue hells.
See the X’s in the gypsy’s eyes.