I flick a switch — out flashes the lightbulb,
like God snapping his fingers in my face:
Wake up, Pumpkinhead. I’ve been running around
half-naked, with the rest of America,
wearing only a credit card and a cashmere scarf.
Arf, arf. Yesterday, I went to Circuit City’s
going-out-of-business sale to revel in the fall of capitalism,
but all I saw were the sad faces of underpaid workers.

Welcome to the land of the free fall
and the freebaser, as well as the freelancer
and freeloader, and front-loading washing machine,
where you can empty your conscience and wash
all those illicit thoughts about illegal immigrants
out of your brain, where it’s still ok
to dock your canoe at the racist joke island
at cocktail parties and chuckle. Two housewives
bang prescription medicine bottles
and whisper cheers. An hour opens
its trench coat and shows you its stolen minutes.
A homeless man gets a boner while sleeping
on a steam grate. There’s a dark car idling
inside you. The question is: do you get in?