city of the almost dead

the streets flood with monitor light,

we window shop for shade in old malls;

recruiting office replace origami studio,

cranes made from unheard whispers;

the sound of change, our jangling jingoism.

confessions maimed into fortunes,

the parishioners' whitewashed tongues are

pulled from candied teeth, only tell lies;

debating platters that could name necropolises,

each of us sees the others as sitting ducks.

on a day where the weather goes skinny dipping,

the President melts into a pool of camera lenses;

gasping, oxygen becomes the most scalped gas,

armed to the gills with gills, deadpan: "nice shot".