AS THE WORLD TURNS

Like Super Mario slinking through a warp pipe
To crash more than land as Tyrone Slothrop
Upon Rapunzel’s golden haystack,
Rapunzel’s golden haystack which rests
At the thorn-torn, tail-end of Gravity’s Rainbow,
I would awake paying heed to the rifle’s barrel,
The rifle’s barrel which I might have used
For a pillow’s stopgap,
Notwithstanding the silver pitchfork
That some Bowser had beetled up my ass–
Now as I limped off an Elizabethan stage
And into a small townhall where all
Were wearing the same mask.
The same mask for fear I might cough,
That is let out some nasty squall
And so plague their infamous world
Of cotton-candy clouds and merry-go-rounds
As currently the world turns like a burnt-out
Tilt-a-Whirl, biding against the same Trump card—
The same Trump card for which America’s belt–
Buckle is about to bust as we turn another corner
And pray for the next stimulus check–
That it might fish us out of water
Where everyone’s up to their necks
And with spite for the one percent who might
Have already ducked out for Mars to start this game of life

over.