Consumption Is What They Used to Call Tuberculosis
For Andrew Panebianco
My atheist believes in a god after all
the god of Market and Dollar.
Pope Pious Capitalism has grown quite corpulent.
He takes Lamictal for his moods,
Lipitor for his cholesterol and
Propecia for his Texas-sized prostrate.
Progress is sweet Sister Mercy.
She trampled liberal arts education
under her Jimmy Choos. She’s a dyed blond who dresses
Victoria’s Secret sexy. Consumerism loves to slip his fingers
under that single strip of material that barely covers
her hot, moist places. She smells better than the
old McDonald’s French Fries,
you know the ones,
before they switched from the transfatty oils.
Consumerism is so insecure. His
acne,
body odor,
flabby abs,
unhappy childhood,
alcoholism,
hair loss,
restless legs when he is trying to sleep,
he might even be losing his memory, he can’t remember.
Capitalism whispers in Consumerism’s ear,
“If you drink more beer, just the right kind,
Progress will let you go all the way.”
Consumerism opens a bottle,
because he knows that sex,
the transformative act of sex and
all that sex and the fucking,
the fucking of the young
constantly changing, constantly evolving,
that this, this act, this
precise moment of oneness with
smooth fresh hairless skin
biologically neurologically sociologically
this act will surely push back
Death.
Market and Dollar have not been seen in 6,000 years.
But my atheist says he has felt their spirit,
seen it televised on CNN at 9:30
Monday through Friday in New York City when
the bell rings, calling the faithful to worship.
Poem by Telaina Morse Eriksen.
