Elise Krentzel  
  The Millenium Problem 
  Other poems:

Subway Psychic

Sell, Sell, Sell
Where will you be when the millenium dawns?
Eating Faith's Popcorn as she pops a kernel in the
chicken fat bored room?

Or riding in the sky
on jetsom and then some, floating on algebra
or adjusting the null. How dull!

Did you know that 007 was a Russian spy? Why?
Area codes of betrayal, splayed out on a platter -
proof perfect in the lab of cyber blabber.

Yet the stand up courts of espionage declared.
"The lipstick was Chinese"
in the borderless crown of epitomy
the Boers begged borrowed and William in memory.
Whilst the Shamen shame the Mandalay
a symbol of old age,
a crime, a blasphemy
as wrinkled lips smack deranged.

As the bombs burst out laughing at America
in her cage - so far gone cocooned
a brand, yet she's still his mother,
so conned and cunning that Mother Russia.

Crush her.
Lemon crushed ice melts in the zero
but in the 7th year they'll be squinting yellow
Mongolian tribes ring circles round their yurts
whilst Shanghai sluts sip yogurt.
National-ism fades in bang, boom, swish..
Tibet's Dalai Lama a holy wish.

But where is Richard Gere?
In third?
Or is he here whilst the Pope hails a New York City
yellow taxi cab, as he munches on Moishe's pastrami and rye, he preaches
"Jesus was a lie".
What a swell guy.

Trying to keep his vision intact, in fact
when the grassy knoll knobs on a hill
Bill Gates will be popping Silicon Valley pills.

But where will you be in 2001?
At heaven's gate or on earths hellish ground,
a dearth of hell bent escapades.

Igniting the key exploding the ocean,
Drilling to the oil
the Argentinians, Chiles and peppers bore
A glimmer, a glammer and what of spiritual matter?
No matter.
What arrow is worth a shot to the center of the narrow, precious core -
uranium shores sink Siberia
and from north to south
and pole to pole
the core is a whole -

rapidly slowly decaying
no delaying for in 2007 when females reign
reindeer run
their artic path melts away
the cheese exports from south to north.

Then comes the lucid moment when Charlie says
'it's not important it's only the form, that's the norm',
Is he standing at the World Trade Center or cruising up the Nile,
or is he petrified in Petra, no no no, that was 1999.

A suicide, a carpet ride as the big ball glides
screeching to the floor
police in military attire attend a gala ball
as Richard Bronson guides a sonic craft towards planets none to small.

The Islamic brigade have got it made,
not in the shade of the light of Mohammed's oil,
that's spoiled the bubble which burst
amassing grievance and hunger
and in Earth's lonely thirst,

a choir sang out into the night.
For a signal, a clue, as to what the hell to do.
In the background sounded a Trappists delight
rejoice in the drink
dubbed live overnight, as they sung,
Show me the way to the next whisky bar....
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