Pundits, bandits,

In forging an alliance with the beautiful  Cleopatra,

On the banks of the  mighty flooded Nile,

the pundits,

who study earth science,

who come bearing  frankincense

                        Stand ankle deep on one side,


the mighty

Ear Nose and Throat doctors,

                                                                      the bandits, if you will.

Stand waist deep on the other.

Trading barrages, like steady boxers, in a game of headaches.

the bandits,

                        Make proclamations that break the sound barrier, and inch civilization closer to singularity,

But choosing to disregard  the magnitude of magnetism.

Fields of forget-me-nots force  a sort of   nostalgia,

                                                        Incidentally another good name for a flower…

& their waiting rooms are filled again.

Their expensive aquariums filled to the brim with water,

& fish

& patients

& people who will smudge the glass.

The patients are alive,

alive as they flip through glossy magazines,

Feet extended,  sunglasses covering their eyes.

Almost lounging in a room that is far from any beach,

Thriving off crossword puzzles that have already been solved,

And samples of perfumes, that only smell like the magazine itself.

Missing beach towels, though.

Missing the  sun, too.

A receptionist takes refuge  behind a transparent sliding door,

Taking notes and constantly looking over her shoulder.

Hoping the pen chained to the counter has enough tensile strength to hold the weight of the world,

…and that no one will ask her for one of her mints.

the pundits,

                                                                      the earth scientists,

Evict the very legend of King Arthur  & his fair Guinevere from his round table,

                                 & stick gum to the bottom

And turn on the T.V, to a daytime talk-show…

& laugh

& laugh,

As they spin the spaghetti from their microwave dinner,

With plastic forks.

They arrive in limousines of mediocrity,

                                                                   Dressed in suits of sapphire.

Golf clubs thrown in the back of the sedan parked in their driveway, at home.

One of the very last things, they will consider before they take the podium.

In front of house that badly needs the grass to be mowed,

In  front of a house that sits on top of  catacombs,

                                                      A family still waves, bright eyed, dressed in matching outfits.

To both,

 the pundits & the bandits,

Whose feet are now wet, and are beginning to shake with the  cold wind.

The conferences are over.

                              The earthquakes have begun.

The diagnosis is complete, and the prognosis is the protagonist has contracted paralysis.

With the blowing wind, and the sky turning a bright pink,

Off  they go on their  various magic carpets, clouds,   monster trucks and sandals that fly as quickly as any bird or any god ever could,

Gone to


Sleep in faraway hotels, tucked under sheets of silk,

Sleeping soundly, knowing two things damn well:

There is a brand new bible tucked in the drawer of the nightstand.


There is an ironing board in the corner, that looks like a monster, if you let it.

& a third thing,

A blinking clock awaits passing glances,

A continental breakfast awaits the morning after, with eggs

                                                                 Sunny side, up.





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