All the gods and their forgotten names escaped
Off our bloated land, jaws dropping as they flew.
I suspect the sight of junk's what did them in,
I suspect the shout of a vendor's so-old!
How long's it been since one caught a shining glimpse?
Nope--they're gone--and plastic pieces pump our pipes.
But I called these junk that work perfectly well,
Let me try and make up this apology:
The pressed-out wax cups lining every highway
Work as well as when the fat kid sucked down juice,
Bums who love nothing else quickly pick them up.
Red as makes one wish blood colors plastics through,
Sturdy as when pumped out. How like a bullet,
We're covered in soup straight out of China's bowels
Moulded into trinkets old women collect.
All this is going on a hundred years now,
A hundred years of backed-up houses spraying
Incontinent over their porches and yards,
A hundred years of withered blocks pricking land
That lie waiting for rust or to get so-old.
Kick it in with your toe and it's no wonder
All the gods and their forgotten names escaped.