What you can expect when the weather breaks
glasses at the bar, the front grille screaming,
the fan blade bent, a man slammed to the floor.
Climatology, emotional IQ,
the breeding cycle of corporate jargon,
all leading to this snore, this plastic cup.
Seas of them surge over border fences,
each seeking the same critical shelf space
undeterred by re-ordering software.
Word made flesh, maybe in a hologram
trademarked here but pirated overseas
and sold in the guise of broader bandwidth.
Whose woods these are we sit on now and kvetch
about the high price of skin and gasoline,
the profits gone to bunkers in the sky.