CHAPEL OF THE RAT

So here we are kids;

Main Street USA. Republic of Disneyland.
Rockwell Paradise.
First World Infantilized.

Look, there’s the old General Store.

The one that never sold bullets to Negroes (it’s a Walmart now).
On the way out we’ll get you a fifty dollar plush toy stuffed
by hollow eyed Bangladeshi adolescents
earning two bits and hour.

There’s the old Soda Fountain in the Drug Store.

Anyone for a hydrogenated deflation neon soma cone?

And the whole shootin' match tended by employees smiling in fear,

just like in good ole' Dixieland.
The air is getting thicker,
and the ice thinner,
but, darn it, there’s nothing to be done
that wouldn't precipitate losing your job.

Look!
Skeletons everywhere!
In buckskins.
In Cossack boots.
In space suits!
Disney honesty.
But no death smell, no rot.
Just freedom fries, caramel corn and cotton candy.

Where once were mere citizens,

now are employee consumer associates
of a 24/7 air conditioned theme park:
Democracy World ™ “Better Than The Real Thing.”

Wish you were here, at the End of History,

in the Land of the Blessed Rat.
Leisuring your fingers to the bone,
for the enrichment of the Military Industrial Hyper Class,
watching over,
from the Crystal Palace.

Humberto da Silva