While we worry about ghosts and who'll fuck us,
while another vinyl banner rises in New York City,
as big as a skyscraper, advertising nothing,
while we share our DVDs and buy our gossip,
while we debate creationism in our schools,
while we discuss what words should be broadcast,
while we stage million-dollar fashion shows,
while we do all the things evolution made us for,
fucking, eating, gaining and keeping power,
while we fill our trivial little lives,
the planet is dying.

But that celebrity known for enironmentalism
supposedly has a hilarious amount
of light bulbs in her mansion.

The ship is sailing visibly to the rocks
and we're debating
whether the guys
screaming we should turn the wheel
are hypocrites.

Someone, doubtlessly, in Troy,
said those Greeks wouldn't come after one slut
and the people sounding the alarms
had bought property recently.

I see a world of smart clothes,
experiences digitally injected into brains,
mile-high skyscrapers joined by monorails,
whole economies based on scant food resources,
keeping out the teeming freezing masses,
as the ocean view turns acid red, then glacier white.

It's not the fall that kills you.

But, by all means,
let's go back to our big-screen TVs,
to our magazines on dead trees
discussing the sexiest airbrushed celebrities,
to gossiping about politicians
instead of debating and improving their ideas,
to our trash culture filled with trash people
while our future slips surely away.

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