They are lined up 
   like products
      prostituted 
         on the shelves of plastic space
Space for zombies
Languishing 
   in dim suburban swill

The lawns are green
Not just green
But squeaky clean
   pristine
      sanitary
         antiseptic
            apoplectic
Void of senses
Counting census
Raw consensus
In the mindless
   bovine
      rancid
         turnstiles
Twisting in the scenes sublime

I creep up to my kitchen perch
And watch the womyn lurch
With offspring
   springing in the wind

I watch them bend
Upon the toxic wasted 
Rubber turf
Waddle through their daily surf
On asphalt scrubbed with liquid cents
And minivans with flaccid gents

The children smile
They click upon the magic mile
And dream of lily white
entrusted style
While TV dinners stew and crack
And VCRs refuse to track
The perfection
That inspection
Should reflect on inflection

But beneath veneer
The cable cars steer
The marketers leer
And fashion embodies
The passion of fear

(c) 1996 James Oliver Smith, Jr