Fin de Siecle Blues

I wish the Now were as the '30s thought
The Future would be: streamlined rocket ships,
Great, graceful cities rising on the moon,
Buck Rogers with twin rayguns on his hips
And Wilma, fair, defiant . . .

Instead, the present chokes on cluttered mass:
Stuttering information overload,
Detritus of technology, smart death
Machines, home entertainment systems --
Downward, backward growth.

Fat bullets fleck the fabric as it tears,
And tired, yellowing schooolrooms incubate
TV jokes, sneering, feverish despair;
The rancid hallway walls are smeared
With passwords learned too late.

Art-deco spiraling citadels
Cardboard splendor, black and silver gray
Topple, turn to rubble on the backlots,
Exposing -- as enchantment falls away --
Drab, distopian decay.