by Joe Hess
The devil’s latest commitment
to global warning is a strange ocean
concoction with a cocktail
umbrella the size of Texas
growing in the Pacific. It’s been
pretty impolite to suggest the devil
is anything but a sweet and sexy
taboo artist, ever since
Rita Hayworth first suggested
in the forties to: “Put the Blame
on Mame,” as she peeled one
white, satin glove down her arm.
Now mother nature pays
for our seductive game of chicken
with the Mr. Big—in blood
as his final event horizon creeps
like a curving zephyr
through our half-tapped
wilderness, touched irrevocably,
profanely naked, and all
the sacred veils are falling away.
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