For Dr. Suess at the End of Time

Adieu to the Aughts. You were hot.

You were not--not for nothing--a boring plateau, a glaze of stasis or a
    vapid star fucker.
Rather electric, this metric of progress; implosion of towers,
   re-moulding of truth,
You fooled us supremely, you laughed at the notion
that oceans of soldiers would change the night darkness,
the nature of things, the way of the world.
You were cool.

You played thrice a night, to standing-room buzzards
who circled the theatres and pecked out some eyes.
You summoned the urges and dirges of hankerchiefs,
suddenly swollen with torrents from widows
and knobbly-kneed tow-heads whose Game*Boy screens showed them
blue murals of heroes who could not bake bread.
You did well.

Not that we care--our noses in smart phones, our hearts in arrest, our
   thuggery branded by Ronald Artest.
Our holiday sentiments nicely wrapped up, the puppies of yesteryear
   fighting for phantoms of what used to pass for a classy romance.

The frothing of talking heads whipping up amnesty lacking a decent
   man's commonsense ancestry.
Ridicule heaped upon saintly relationships, gay penguins traded like
   black-and-white poker chips.
Hummers and bummers and Terri Schiavo and Sham-Wow and cable
    and Bush's Iago.

Thailand has marzipan! Congo has gruel. Media moguls burn drachmas
   for fuel.
And then ride on elephants shod in the latest, in Prada, in Dolce,
in Emo the fey-est of good little bad boys and nastier ladies, living the
   good life but paying in Hades.

How meaningless, time, the space that we're given,
so be nice to each other, attention is riven
in dirt road and skyscraper, polygraph muckraker, Vonnegut's
   caretaker, jockey Wil Shoemaker.

How meaningless, time, the bed that we've made,
with pointers from Einstein, what Asimov bade
us: Beware of the charlatan, false prophet's
pompous decrees of such utter stupendous stupidity.

Ending is hard. Don't you agree?
Off you go, then, my song's not for free.

To paraphrase Velma Kelly, Happy New Years, Suckers!!