the way forward

the year is 2235. it’s raining.

it’s a dirty rain. it’s hot in December.

rodents are everywhere. they eat their own kind

and still their numbers increase.

you’d think by this time we’d have things figured out.

we haven't. 

unearthed imagery advanced by the “Jetsons” was misleading.

flying cars zooming between buildings was a terrible idea.

we tried them. It was carnage out there, what with all the

smashing and crashing and cars falling down like air conditioners

out of high floor windows in Manhattan back in the day.

nobody wants to see people smushed like so many ants

under the bouncing feet of children at recess.

unfortunately, the women are cold; cold to their men.

from the women's perspective their coldness is attributed

to their distain for the common man who blames

his faults on everything but himself; his inability to perform,

his wrongdoings, his lackluster attitude toward failure.

men are still very much like that guy at the traveling carnival who claims

the hole is smaller than the ball and the duck is bolted to its tracks.

the year is 2235, and society has spiraled downward, and yet

we remain as we always have, glorious in our eyes.