Super PAC

A voice called me here. It spoke ratios
To ruins: a lamb born with two heads:
Statues in the capitol crying: roses
In recycle bins: shopping carts clattered
Empty through suburban streets where month-long
The sprinklers released clouds above dying lawns:
Decoy eagle in the big box store dug
Down his talons down through the cellophane
To the liver in the Styrofoam tray—
Gods of fluorescent tubes, filament
Gods, gods of the fuse-box, gods of display
Cases, rejoice—. Genius has raised the rent—.
The sculptor prepares the next shattered visage.
I’m Dan Beachy-Quick; I approve this message.