50th St.

50th Street the stars are out.
At home, they hawk you drugs
over the tube, arthritis cures, prozac
and viagra, may cause miscarriage,
cancer, impotence, consult your
doctor. Between commercial breaks,
America may sing its song.
What JFK say? America is a
chorus line? On Broadway, Liza
Minnelli heaves her chalky train
and stamps, whale-bark, croak,
paunch flung out to meet her
public, before the parade passes by.
On CNN, Tiananmen Square 20
years on, they blocked the news
cameras with undercover police
umbrellas, on CNBC exposé
of drug companies diluting chemo
doses, many murdered, the FBI
wept. The humanity. 50th Street
it's all song and dance, the glitz
of chemical death won't blunt
tits ties teeth tans tunes tap shoes.
The veterans of decades on the stage
tear up and talk of overwhelming
joy, just pray we're not in for
a revival. They cry and gnash
their teeth so you don't have to,
oh boy. All America is a spasm,
drug-addled divas, artistes that
suck their own penis envy, ain't
we pretty here in the big city?
A spasm centuries wide, paid
up with medication, insurance,
sponsorship, self-love, insanity.
I might laugh, cry, scream
bloody murder, please somebody,
quickly, pass me a mic,
or palm me a placebo.