Recession

The sky is heavy, like wheels on a bus
it falls down and down meeting the ground.
The smell of it is ice mixed with rain
the sky touches the hills,
grass and dirt
it is no longer blue, but every color
mixing and mixing
a concoction of color that tastes of every season.
Despite the chaos of it all
silence—wind is still.
Chicken Little warned us all it would happen
she stood on the cement of Wall Street proclaiming prophecies.
she didn’t warn us really—merely ranted like a madman
but we didn’t listen.
What does it matter now?
the sky has fallen
order is no more
children’s songs will dwindle into history
the slang sounds of “yo-yo dude” from the mouths of
pre-teen boys—
who act tough, because they are tough—are lost.
Whatcha gunna do now,
the blue world of misery asks,
I was happy, even when you were killing me.
The sky fell
down and the world opened up
no more blue to mask the stars
no more air for space has taken it away.
Ashes—ashes we all fall
down
and we all fall—like the sky we are no more.
Playful fires sear the skin of the Earth and we feel it too
we blame the Son
we blame the bailout
we blame Chicken Little and her doomed choir of angels
when we didn’t listen.
Adios, goodbye, chài fùi, farvel, ci vediamo, hej då, au revoir
the sky sungout as it crashed.
Its tires turned and the sky burnt out.