After Bush of the Elect Achieved His Re-Election

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Bush rallies anti-intellectual
boot-strap mind-crop lawn-choke
anti-musicians, the sluggish
and sleepish, those who have stuffed
their ears with potatoes, not to mention
global dominatrix hard fathers hypnotized
by legalistic parachute-backed strong-armed
puritans from 1720 down in their bones,
big-eyed balding baby men transversing
routes from which no one returns
without brain-blanched flat hates and huhs
that keepeth their haw and howitzers
enveined where a spark ought to clear.

But Bush just walking rosined in war-room electrics,
the billfold parties lit up by refinery torches
over those telephone pole crosses along the road
of vanishing pre-regret, biblifying on the cuff
of young people's sacred hours, the dessert promised
for after the shut down and kindred in ruins
destroyed into mortar-blown silver quarters,
a young person's chest or leg or brain forever
stone over which tanks dustily echo, half full of oils
and last breath, and heat of apocalyptic gluttony
joyful in sales anger and exasperated out of tide
so no one will need to think anymore, lie-ignoring
the upwashed faith-based draineries
pokering the breaches of the non-rich
and clear-washed, when citizen people
who were not counted should have been.
It remains what this is, how far
down Bosch (it has become)
plunges whoever he can get to go.