being remembered in poetry

Transcending death
as a branded whimsical marketing fiction
is our American sainthood.
Your meaning dies with your body
but a hollowed-out version of your name
lives on and on forever.

The honourary Kentucky Colonel
Harland Sanders
chicken cook and franchising genius
lies a mouldering in his grave
but a cartoon simulacrum
voiced by an underpaid actor
is dunking basketballs to this day
promoting bacon and cheese sandwiches
where chicken breast patties
are the goddamned bread.

Orville Redenbacher
innovative crossbreeder of grains
will be selling microwaved sugars and oils
slathered over a vestigial amount of popcorn
with cold dead computer generated eyes
until the end of time.
As long as there is more than one person on Earth
there will be new commercials starring
Tron Redenbacher
for one survivor of the apocalypse
to sell chemical-slathered corn to another.

Ettore Boiardi catered the wedding
of President Woodrow fucking Wilson
he won the American Gold Star
and the fucking Order of Lenin
for feeding American and Soviet troops in World War Two
he sold out to ConAgra
when too many family members were asking for money
now his face is on a child poison called “Beefaroni”
on some eldrich abomination called Macaroni Cheeseburger Maxx
but at least he’s remembered
all the meaning of his life and goals and dreams
wrung out like a sponge
but the bastardization of his name lives on
like a zombie
shambling on with thoughtless momentum
until the stars in the sky themselves burn out.

Never mind the socialist preacher in ancient Palestine
who now sells hate and bombs and prosperity gospels
never mind even that guy
His philosophy hollowed out like an unrottable Twinkie
refilled with a vanilla cream of intolerance and moneylove
put back on the shelves as if it was always that way.
Never mind that.

This is how we make our American saints.
Take the image they made with innovation and passion
compassion and new thinking
boar them out with a diamond-tipped drill
bloat the hole back overflowing with
chemicals and usury
and pretend that we’re still honouring the dead.

These are our saints
these are our American hollowed-out saints
stuffed up in the field as scarecrows of consumption
in their forever-deaths as whimsical marketing fictions.
But hey.

But hey but hey.
At least we we remember their names?