THE ANGRY WORLD: A Final Transmission from GUN 929

Ghost ship dawn in the desert

Cold and still

placid corpse on a marble slab

Smoking a joint at the airport perimeter

Semi-automatic rifle strapped around my sore shoulder

GUN 929 carved on its stock with a hunting knife

Two trinkets of salvation in my jacket pockets

King James Bible stained with alien slime

dented tin flask filled with expensive bourbon holy water

Runway lights look like deformed religious icons

a decapitated neon cross in a skid row mission window

From an old radio station that broadcasted conspiracy shows

we transmit old poems written by phantoms across dead air

When the martian machines drilled up through the ground

and chewed up the churches and fast food joints

not a soul even looked up from their playing cards

The dice kept rolling from greasy, hopeful hands

Poker chips were flipped

at cocktail waitresses as tips

Wayne Newton sang to an audience

on vacation from outside our solar system

Giddy mobsters still busted jaws in back alleys

Society broke down on the morning of September 29th


the little green men leveled the casinos with a death ray

turned the whorehouses into stardust with a planetary pulverizer

We finally took up arms against this un-American nonsense

We made a flag from the banner of a burned out strip club

Art Bell’s face emblazoned on its field

flying it on the roof of the air traffic control tower

From the horizon, the aliens make an early charge

Chomping on sand and buried mafia corpses

I have a million dollars in a suitcase

taken from a secret vault owned by Howard Hughes

No hookers or horse races left to lose it on

I take a sip of booze and enjoy the sunrise

No more crappy job to have to get up for

Liberty kicks ass in the strangest of ways

Apathy is a serene prayer


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