Everything is Perfect

Everything is perfect here.

The pictures of families all are straight,

not a stick of furniture made before 2008.

I can’t help it if my desire to take a match to it is innate.

 

Everything is white, here,

eggshell, taupe, and seafoam.

Well, I’ve never seen the sea,

and your drapes are no replacement.

I wanna rip them to shreds.

 

I have naughty visions in my head

of neon orange, paisley and polka dots,

second-hand chairs

with stains from god-knows-where

cluttering up your tidy space.

I call it a museum for the human race;

the human face you try to erase from the mirror.

 

A home is for the living,

for bodies and their messy functions.

A house is a nest for social ideals

and matching pastels,

with purses and shoes lined up at the door.

 

(Write your name on your valuables.

They will be returned to you.)

 

A factory house for factory living and dying.

The mass production of coffins is no coincidence.

We are all buying with confidence

and the gravediggers are prospecting

that the market can only expand.

The invisible hand is not so invisible,

if you follow the strings.

Everyone wants pretty things

and the ornithologists

have learned (not to anyone’s surprise)

that the magpies

don’t believe in death.

 

So, the conditions are perfect

for repo to collect

on the interest--but principally--

the ignorance of our debts.

Author's Note

First draft 2/2010