The Only Day to Be Against

The cockroaches have become ticks,
marking the clock with blood marks,
stark parks whose money flows as 
fast as the metabolism of the creature para
sited. Don't glare, they will bare your eye
balls and take what moisture you offer.
Look away. The only day to be against
is the play by play, the watching, the telly
vision whose belly fills up with derision
until the cynical becomes cyclical, coming
back to those pock-packed hands driving
around and around until the midnight
noon hits, shoots the moon, with its
trident gun, and becomes the ending
to the story of the road, that horrible
ending to the world, whose universe
is death and death and death and a little
memory of Shakespeare, shaken and 
speared by the tone of choice that says:
you shall shrew down and brew up into
the remainder, the domainder, the can of
squirm that became a Kafka final request,
denied, there is no will left in this chaotic place.