Can’t complain about this year
so when the ball drops
and the bombs drop
I’ll watch as one might watch
a puppet show or a film
or a film about puppet shows.

They’re ticking, be sure of it
and Jesus has mounted his broomstick.
For those atop houses
with binoculars and nachos,
befriend the FBI
and don’t take your eyes off the sky.

Be paranoid
be superstitious.
It’s healthy.
Trust me.
I’ll be fishing,
taking time to reel in a toss-back
and take in a toss-up.

Be afraid
of the big wick in Times Square
and repent until you’re blue in the face.
Don’t choke on the ticker tape
when your jaw drops
when the ball drops
and the bombs drop.

Nurse your need for a dose of a reason to be.
Smack your lips and count down
10, 9, 8, 7
6, 5, 4, 3

Chin up
to strap on your helmet,
your Army-issue goggles,
your underwater breathing apparatus.
Dive into the ribcages of others nearby
and hide from the firework war and the flood.

This is your resolution:
to climb into nests high above the high water mark,
sit still enough to not rock the lifeboat
or casbah.
Needles to scratch my wrists with
and scar and mix and fade this day
into the dissolve of another day.

A double zero year
the year of the loser
and sideways 8.
Scratch your wrists and mix
and pave your way
into the dissolve of another day.

They’re out in the streets
and raising their arms
to embrace the fat of a cowardly nation.

But this is just a run-through,
a dress rehearsal, on the stage set
to debut at midnight,
after the pine’s abandoned to the street side
and the stockings are plucked from the wall
and you’ve shocked yourself taking down icicle lights
and there are plans to return unwanted gifts.
There’s still money to burn,
airline ticket prices to soar,
there’s still turf to burn, time to burn,
highway to leave behind,
cannons to load to fire
babies into space,
geniuses to outsmart,
confessions to come clean,
prophecies to fulfill,
works to dissect
up on caffeine
for days in a hangover casket with a gray head
and a bottle of aspirin.
Stomach aches from surrendering the lining
to acid, ignoring the suffering suffix,
passing out in an oxygen booth in front of
24 hour surveillance.

This is your party if you choose to accept it.
I’ll be more than happy to cater to your guest list.
A crater for a dead race
past-tense
abolish to polish a good cause.

Clasp your hands together
behind your head.
We’re gonna frisk you up and fuck you up
and let
you
down,
meet all your expectations and then some,
make good your silly predictions
and cast some of our own.

Fortune-cookie-hungry
for excuses and explanations,
reasons to be happy on a Monday
and every other day of the week.

Your pink slip is here
now.