Dr. Phil and Dr. Oz

The picket-fathers of modern psychoanalysis

And medicine

Gnashing our flaws away in gory applause

Joined by the sunday saints of the HD SMPTE color bars

Technicolor hands

Raised pixels in benediction

Sacrificed flesh falling in petals

In return for the tearing red pleasure

Tearing the family apart

And flowers will wither on windowsills

As long as America bleeds the time of our youth

Wanting, rather, spent rather in cement haunts

And overgrown railways

Artifacts of an era of industry

Not art

Parks and playgrounds of simple faith

Now art

Left behind to be left behind

By the faithless

By the birds

By soft souls and philosophers and queens

Of peace

Hallways of broken images

Second stories of stories

Sheathed in dust and broken glass

And love

“If your here your free*”

Uneducated rats at a sanctuary

Instead of a desk

Living passionately for each other

In this brave new world

Mending and making amends

Refusing a better ending

Holding onto everything

Desirous of everything

Content enough to live in empty palaces

Twirling pens and spray paint

The midair pendulum keeping time and thought alive

Singing with their hands

Laughing with their feet in the tempest of cinders

Dies irae, dies illa...

And so we dance