By Joe Cloyd
Even in death
You are
Worse than a
Hollow suit
Worse than a
Hollow head
Worse than a
Hollow tip bullet
Ideology
You are dead now
Buried in the west
Where the grass
Is always green
And the dirt
Is gold
There are streets and
Freeways and malls and
Airports and
Who knows
What else named after you
Because you
Were good at
Selling GE
And laundry
Detergent
Most importantly
You could sell
Yourself:
A lifeguard
And varsity
Football player
Who went
To Hollywood
And made it
And then
Became president
Who won the
Cold war
By cutting taxes
For the rich
Got on
His horse and
Put on
His cowboy hat
Riding out into
The sunset
But
Your myth
Is at our
Expense
You are
A product
You are
The bleached
Phony smile
That promises
Prosperity but
Brings misery
You are
The picture
Of the pope
On a bag
Of potato
Chips
You are the
Squinting icon
Of the
Credit card
You are
Death on the
Installment
Plan
You are a war
I don’t want to fight
You are
Norman Rockwell
With Marcel
Du Champ’s
Head up
His ass
You are the
Mother of
The moneyed
Manson family
You are the
Soul of
Gasoline
You are
The spokesman
For fat
Retarded
Hamsters
Shitting social
Darwinism
You are
South American
Hit squads
Cutting off the
Genitals of
Labor organizers
And priests
And stuffing
Them in their
Mouths
You are W—
The letter that
Bankrupted
Alphabets
Everywhere
You are the
Walt Whitman
Of
Wall Street
You are a
Cardboard
John Wayne
You are a
5-year old
Setting
Spiders
On fire
And someday
Thanks to your
Acolytes
You might
Just become
Jesus Christ
