The future has hope, and that’s about it.

But does it now?
Televisions, portals into the here and now
the manicured lawns and plastic
(big tits, Barbie- oh so plastic) existences of the
everyday (wo)man.
Newscasters blinding us with their bleached fangs and cellophane exteriors
determining my fears- deciding what will be
the impetus for my next prescription
(come on, baby, bring on those anxiety meds.)
I can quit anytime I want.
Reporter Barbie, one claw-like hand on the microphone,
the other clutching the balls of society
Barbie tells me the sky is blue, but through my dirty window
I see only overcast skies
(It’s all lies, Babs, only lies.)
From the back pocket of my Levi’s comes an ice scraper.
(Let’s put it to use and clear away the bullshit)
Through the window, I see the house next door.
(Barbie, Kelly, Ken, and Theresa all stand anxious, ready to)
attack
Cart after cart rolls out; eleven dead in a house of sin.
Babies-
oh where has the hope gone now?
Hop on the American Express. Thousands nearby flood the streets, faces
painted ochre like (rotting) bone.
People die, let’s celebrate it.
Lollipop corpses dirty the hands of our young while they grasp
in the dark for machine guns.
(Look no further, ladies and gentlemen, the dead are at your doorstep)
But goddmamnit, I’m an American, or so the stickers tell me.
(I voted, My Kid is a Fucking Honor Student, Jesus Saves- but only
those who deserve it.)
Fist around my pistol and flag draped on my back, let’s defend the
Constitution before those (illegal) aliens try to take over our world.
And I wonder- where’s the hope in that?
Our science is advanced, our people no longer primal; let’s bring back Doc Brown
and the DeLorean
(Reverend Brown will guide us to the light)
Head to the desert and find a first-class ticket on an atom bomb to
make the country a better place.
Gift-wrapping democracy to a country filled with bodies
(Would you like a bow with that?)
Mothers weeping over the emaciated bodies of their children,
but it’s all gravy because we understand
(sobs resonate from coast to coast as our favorite child molester turned
sequined superhero is laid to rest)
And understanding overrides atrocity.
(Where is the hope?)
It’s the age of innovation, so let’s do something, goddamnit. Yossarian preaches
from his airplane the benefits of mediocrity as I sit and watch the black-
suited robots of my generation lose
their souls with every breath.
The American Dream is silenced by the overbearing
kaching
of black-market normalities
(girls with one leg in childhood while their pimp applies more rouge)
(“Welcome to the US: give me your hungry, your tired, your poor”
shouts the used car salesman).
I struggle to turn off the television screen (some dickhead stole my remote)
and close the window, but can’t.
Jesus save me I’ll pay.
Noise deafens the Riddlin that’s powering brains
until nothing seems right.

And tell me, where’s the hope in this?