Hot for Change
I’m hot for change, hot for heat,
I’m hot for change like David Lee Roth was hot
global warming in a pageant sash,
not-quite-forgotten old desire,
filling in the candidates’ ballot bubbles and watching them rise like oil
through Gulf waters.
you’re all Icy Hot®, wholly owned,
yearning for market solutions for problems that don’t exist.
I’m hot for the currency of oceans, horizons stretched wide,
I’m hot for the truth that we’re all in this together.
You’re not alone. Never alone.
As sexy educators strut the classroom catwalk,
I walk the length of a whale carcass at sea.
Sharks feed on my edible boat.
Change is a dot on the horizon, and I move toward it
like a global warning, a global something-or-other.
Sharks are perfect engines,
and oil is greasing the blubbery wheels.
But according to fractal theory, I may never reach change.
And always halving the distance between us, we may never touch.
The sky presses in from borders beyond measure,
sun exploding—a time-frozen flashpot, a doomed petroleum platform—
and we’re helpless as dispersant falls
like Eighties video glitter,
like chalkboard dust,
like teacher wants to see me after school.