This November

I'm in a tough nightmare.

I fear this November will
mean nothing.

I see North America
bound by a ligature like rings
around Saturn.

Crowds of people - their faces
like withered roses -
are sweating as much as mercury
beside the sun;
their debt is stuck like a bag
on the highest branch
of a tree, flapping in the wind.

I see others
psychologically resembling
new-born birds  blindly staring up,
mouths gaping open,
but the price of food makes it like a thief
on the lamb.

The price police use
psychological profiling.
I'm worried their
facial recognition will
find my own frown, being that
cookies for dinner suck.

That creepy sound a
haunted-house-door makes
keeps echoing in my stomach.

Here in this space-like realm of R.E.M
another threat of war's been formed
out of clay,
but the potters fingerprints
look recognizable.
There are enough bodies lying around
from previous wars to fill Jupiter.

As I slowly start to wake
I can smell it.
Out of the debt, the forewarned wars,
the senseless shootings,
rising rents, online fear mongering,
and suicides,
there's a whiff of optimism
passing by like a shooting star.

But
the sun has yet to rise.

So while the fibers of sleep
can still be seen under the
microscope,
for whomever finally stands
with their hand on a bible  
and repeats the oath with
a wink

I fear this November will
mean nothing.