there’s not much time left—
            it has finally happened:

clothes are worth more
            worn than new

gasoline is more affordable
            than water—

folks of all types, shapes,
            and sizes
have figured this out,
                        at last:

that handheld shiny hard
            death-flingers—
with the slightest movement of
                        the finger—

and the small chunks of metal
            that accompany them—

are easier to come by,
            and to use,

than the pen and the page.

(fresh bodies piled up by their
favorite rivers, each one sworn—
            to the furthest depths
            of their over-extended
            oceanic universe
            imaginations—
they never heard of the sword)