What kind of revolution lands with a plop, not a passionate
caucus of like minds, but the righteous ho hum
of the revelry, twiddle stash and his minions ruling
with an upturned eyebrow and a question mark, expecting all
but you to know the answer, while none are ever.
to speak it, for reality is a sense of burning tires.
It deposits its waste on the regular, spilling out over
the news every day, concluding hopeless tid bits
and ball scratching posers, for misery is a business too,
like all other things, working a neverending
cycle of tragedy, four digits dead is a jackpot.
Twenty-four hour coverage of the great sense
deadening, somehow survival has become a sport,
on the horrorshow, in and of the horrorshow
also, come to think of it, seems like it’ll be on the news
apocalyptic finality, but Bachelor in Paradise is on.