When your fight song plays on the dance floor
You wanna just reach over and punch
The nearest person
With your teeth.
You got a strobe light heart and an attention span to match,
rolling out of bed with your 4AM eyes still on,
wondering why the world is still so damn bright.
There’s things to figure out, like where to eat
and how you’re affording the tickets for
Burning Man this year.
When you’re in a carousel of taxicabs
When hangover brunch is sacrosanct
When you got your hallelujah headphones on
You hear that song in your every cell
But you don’t hear much else.
Missouri’s aflame, gnashing teeth
drinking molotov cocktails instead of coffee
and not giving a good goddamn about curfew.
Iraq’s in convulsions, left high and dry
on a mountainside to find their way home,
with sharks circling, ready to post
the whole bloody affair on Youtube.
Ukraine’s a bloodied boxer pacing
wild-eyed around the ring,
just wanting to pull the gloves off
peel the tape away, and go sit at home
with her kids.
And maybe then, after a half hour of accidentally
clicking from link to link, you might realize
you spent four hundred dollars on a ticket for Burning Man
when you could’ve opened a newspaper to see
brutal deconstruction at it’s finest.