Haute Couture Grotesque, or Talking About My Generation

After the mild war, the war that seemed to only last an hour,

we noticed many different types of sky.  Each advertised

its own demise: one atomic, one apocalyptic, another ironic.

We learned to live with it.  Here in the Year of the Bore,

the Year of the Stethoscope, we are told the weather will go

from balmy to brutal in twelve hours flat.  We are told

It's a miniature winter, but it's a winter that keeps on happening. 

It's one long cough on the way to April; our lungs are their own

carcinogens.  Some of us subscribe to the Chicken Noodle diet

while the rest swear by Wonder Bread, the vodka-cigarette

method, the Quaker Oats technique.  We are told Try to get

some sleep.  In retaliation, we hit the town and make requests:

I'll have a Sidecar, a Greyhound.  I'll have an Old-Fashioned.

Despite the drop in egg count we are forever photogenic;

we've found a way to bottle the juice of the pomegranate,

we know all sorts of synonyms for stimulus.  Though

the opposite of a mirror is what we're looking into,

we've evolved past our need for eyes; we're hoping

the skies will implode after last call, that we can still

hear the weather, that someone will tell us what to expect.