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Fenton Spear


An unmanned Russian spacecraft

is falling to Earth

and starting to cast the shadow

of Vladimir Ilyich Lenin

over people you’ve known.

Meanwhile, a butterfly walks

between flowers to stay warm

and out of the Himalayan winds.

But Joni Mitchell is still in

a coma as the rain just dumps,

batting a thousand protesters

in the head like a punch

from Manny Pacquiao–

it hurts to know nothing

but the truth and with a faint

Southern accent, tell the world

you will never go bald

because you spent your first

five Earth-years

on Mars, blurring your vision.

Drilling a hole on another planet

is hard. But so is riding

a pet zebra through Central Park.

On the Fox five o'clock news,

getting famous and then blackballed

with your faint Martian drawl,

which speaks nothing but red,

white and truth when you state

to the President that being white

and privileged is rough–growing up


as a Martian in private schools,

playing billiards and listening to Liszt.

But now you’re reading Boswell’s

Unabridged Life to Joni Mitchell
because she’s in a coma and can’t


tell you to stop reading

about the considerable degree

of Ivy league success that’s now climbing
out of your ass. But I digress--

that’s what being privileged and white


does when you’re on top of Everest,

staring down and looking smug

at the avalanche you caused

by tapping the ass off your Cuban cigar.

Meanwhile, an unmanned Russian spacecraft

is falling down to Earth.

Over areas of red as rescuers rise

their toll of death and relatives seek refuge.

From Katmandu to Sindhupalchok.






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