For Lawrence Ferlinghetti
The sky is closer here. I swear, it hangs
Like a cheap ceiling over this dark place.
Perhaps it's the hills
Crouching up around the edges of town, perhaps the gray
Of the sky, the land, the people
In this summer place scarred by winter. C'mon; let's us duck
Into this artificial environment, get ourselves away
From these dark hills, out from under that terrible sky; let's crawl into the
belly
Of this Capitalistic beast
And observe its habits. He's here, you know? His slants, his rants,
All on sale here, along with
The rest of the trash: simulated female flesh,
Fashion dressed up as dialogue, teenage tarts
Sold as middle-aged milkmaids, the thing is:
They are not angels. Are they? Not in this place, this time.
There is no food here,
No sustenance, not even popcorn, not even cotton candy. This place
Barely even is, except out of necessity, brought to you by the friends
Of Capital. With friends like that,
Who needs eminem?
I ask you: is he necessary? Do we require him? Is he as utile
As this half-assed temple-bazaar?
You may object to the profanities.
By which I mean: you are allowed,
But do you object to his proclamations against
Faggots? Women? I'm no faggot
But I do object; no woman,
But likewise. How has it come to pass
In this place, this rigidly
Controlled environment
Where nothing could ever possibly go wrong? I just came in here
For a pair of shoes, a break in the action, maybe a beer, and all I get
Is the shoes? The poor merchant I leave
With my fifty bucks is losing out,
For the angels are dishing out their dough
For Marshall Mathers' insults
While I wander through this wasteland
Wondering where I might buy a slice of pizza
Or a rack of ribs
Or maybe even a beer
Surely some revelation is at hand.
Surely you have an answer. Surely
You know what's up here. C'mon: give it up, ya wop. Tell me:
Are these angels? Is that Ruth behind
Those Italian eyes? Can I find warmth behind
Her plastic pout, earth beneath her platform sneakers?
But no, no answer, no offer; you just traipse off
After this Yankee angel in a halter top and henna tattoo
Not needing to know how anything lived or died
In this strange foodless environment
While I am left to puzzle out the meaning
Of this dirty little paradise
Where I can't even find, dammit, something to write on.
Wait! Stop! Larry, wait up! I got it! The answer!
This is all Scranton could afford! No food, no beer, no Weltanschauung, in this sea of luxuries!
These poor Yankees must do without! Marshall Mathers the Third
Is shipwrecked!
And in due time
The angels
Will devour him.
James MacFarlane Willaims