in her brand-new crimson pearl Honda EX,
mucks along in the morning commute,
broods about retiring,
quitting, moving on
where there’ll be no more of this shit:
bureaucracies budding like e-coli,
A.I. swallowing the real.
She needs jalapeño peppers and stiletto heels,
salsa and swing, not this funeral march,
this job toward which she is currently squirming
like a tapeworm through traffic and tunnels,
white noise and muted black jacket, discreet scarf.
There are too damned many people. 5,000 species
gone extinct, while each incremental high-tech system
spawns a translator and two highly paid VPs.
She needs jalapeño peppers and stiletto heels.
She needs to kick ass. The radio announces a sharp increase
in earthquakes, as America blasts her hills open,
stuffing its trash in the wounds—cell phones, plastic,
used breath. The latest technology has it covered,
say the talking heads. But.
Have you noticed there’s a whole lot of shakin’ goin’ on?
Damn. There are too many fools.
She needs jalapeño peppers and stiletto heels.