How about the triple underpass as the cervix of the world
and GG-300 as the tragic DNA-laden tadpole
that makes the poor young planet swell with future
wars and toys and sedatives.  How ‘bout

the limousine is itself one giant bullet
pointed, well, you know where.  In fact,
you’re still bleeding.  Or the pink pillbox hat
is also a horse tranquilizer we must every one of us

choke down, and the headlights are hypnotic lamps
and the pathetic death-of-a-salesman lunge
of Clint Hill onto the lurching hood
is the official dance of the People’s Democratic

Republic of Craven, Malignant, Heartbroken Sleepwalking.
Or maybe that’s only the Miltown talking.