Wordsworth! Ginsberg! Whitman! We need thee this very hour while, chilled by early winter, lustful fists molest for deals, deals, door-busting deals. Hands working hours, working weeks, working lifetimes for this zippity-do-dah yankee doodle clusterfuck of an enraged morning. Like bombing for oil, the registers beep of Baphomet—yet none recoil.
Greed, violence and work, drive us forward and fly! For your patriotic duty is to buy. Rev the engines of wealth and brighten the shining light of this hill town. Too big to fail, too big to care, a corporate personhood, the priesthood of should, ingenuity of white men and egos, the princes of our time, the power ties, the getting and spending. Chew me, vomit me, ruin, ruin, ruin me. Doubt is thy only salvation. But, our dollar in heaven, hallowed be your smile; old George, help us murder and stay positive all the while.
What will you say when the cold chill of cosmic unimportance whispers on the back of your neck? What will you quantify when nothing is taken from this mortal wreck? What is the 401(k) plan to meet death? When Charon waves, what bargain will you carry across the divide? Crock pots and towels and laptops and tablets, just a bread and circus insurance against the great beyond, the outer grim of unknown.
But, when the system shits us out for doubt, we will rise unto the impenetrable, and flame in the skies, leaving only a beautiful memory of an inconsequential revel of this our only life. They won’t know what happened, but wonder and promptly forget.