Even Nobody needs somebody
sometime, down on bloody knees,
stumbling through the wreckage
with an Over the Hill mug full
of his own tears & spit, wreckage
falling from the sky in smoldering
shards like lawn darts swarming
the eyes of future cancer doctors
in 1975. Diffident, quivering,
they bubble up from their pods,
his primary readership, without form
or fear, enveloping him
in a great glutinous smock, deflecting
bombs & rays, assuming the form
of a great cocktail umbrella
to shield him from the angry meteors
& poison flechettes lobbed by the good
townspeople, nuzzling his chaffed
sides & cooing in their rude approximation
of speech: we're here now, you
can relax, everything's going to be
just as it's always been but remastered for
Surround Sound, your 3-D glasses
free with each ticket. Long gone
are the other Sons of Toth: Zandor, Zok,
Tundro, all succumbed to the shadow
swarm, a dark mob ruling through
parchment & quill. No Sky Ghost
is coming in his phantom cruiser
to whisk you: only Gloop & Gleep's
secretions sweet as goat-mead
from the cauldron of gods. The mob
calls upon the author to sign dotted lines
despite their lack of closed
captioning, but the soothing blather
of a protoplasmic talk show host
has already taken hold. Nobody's
going anywhere. Nobody's home.
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