Windsurfing Nation

All the bankers rise from their shoulder-deep graves, smoking their cigarettes
Letting every particle of every drop of smoke cling to their bodies and their newly-installed
Dirt from centuries of demolished buildings and abandoned bodies
Of every lover who couldn’t say goodbye
To the corpses and tombstones they fell in love with
The nympho-necropheliacs who came out only at night, chasing ambulances and hearses
Who enjoyed the feeling of concrete ripping the rubber from the souls of their shoes
And worried about tuition and rent and gas prices
Who associated with religious fanatics on a personal level
Who went to church every Sunday to sit in awe and repentance
Of their filthy habit of being happy and content and happy and happy
Their acidic holy water was ushered into vials
So they could drink it graveside
As a replacement for empty tears and as lubricant
Only to have it all funneled to the giant swamp-like wading pool
For children and their ailing comrades
Trumpeting cures and regenerated limbs
Thanks to the larger saucer of contaminated salt and water
Home to all the halved turtles and loveless drifters
Who can’t find their way home again
Having eaten all their maps and navigators
In a moment of sea-sick crazy
Brought on by broken marriages and a forgotten legacy
As they bump in the plastic soup
The wrenching, growing neutron of anaerobic civilization
Floating with impudence in the human cesspool.