Deregulation

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I.

A radio announcer whose program has been eclipsed
by an operatic soprano, a Blackjack dealer
who discovers the cards are pasted over with photographs
of industrial waste sites and militia. . .

Looking around the newsroom,
you might realize the distance between two points
is a pentagon and peace means war.

Deregulation might mean permission to soak up the funds.
Or you might find yourself taxiing a religious cargo jet
and your name is Mr. Johan. But news interrupts
with belugas succumbing to viral strains they tolerated
thirty years ago. Now the simple-minded president
wants to write you a check, funded by borrowed Chinese
purchases of rooms of the White House.

II.

Shoulders curve beautifully as wild spikes
are secretly hammered into trunks of trees
scheduled for industrial removal.
Young women are chaining themselves
to the bodies of ancient redwoods.

Thundering Air Force jets pass over the house,
or is it nuclear thunder? The blue flowers of rain
pattern themselves after being seen, and the gift
you wish you could give appears in something going on
around here but what it is isn't exactly clear.
Raccoons claw up the screen door, looking
for the back yard's exit.

III.

You close your eyes and sit back
under the a sky where the crescent moon
and infrared sun are hammered
into ether between atoms, making a sunset.

You could see a spider
without much trouble and realize the world
didn't have to be here for you.

The clock circles with its citrus
and quietness, the face of a neighbor turning
into a gargoyle. You realize something
inside you is asking to be more awake,
asking you to look into the eyes of robins
who require you pay your way
by risking what you have-in this only time
we're here-and you see you are.