I saw Paris Hilton impaled, forehead
past occipital bone, on a wooden
stake in the last remake of House of Wax.

"Huzzah!" I hailed, knowing these subversive
indie filmmakers had nailed pop culture
between the eyes. Hilton was not herself,

but every lobotomized editor
who'd ever used her on the cover of
their rag; every brain-dead Fox exec

responsible for piping her weekly
into American homes; each member
of the Bush Administration who gloats

that talent-free, empty bleached blonde bimbos
fill our news columns, elbowing swarthy
Iraqi (& khaki-clad U.S.) dead

to the back page. When Paris dies for real
I'll wager we see the coffin on all
channels, high-gloss endangered mahogany,

while the caskets of our war-dead young keep
slipping through the back door: no scrutiny,
in the name of Bushland Security.