Like a pail of white plaster,

heavy and viscous,

the new age hangs

from a yoke

across my shoulders

swinging the days from side to side,

befouling the air

with its stench,

in the language

of a future abyss,

but there is music,

pictures, and mental stills

to lift the burden

until a news program

or newspaper tells me

that Elvis has REALLY

left the building.

02/18/2004