“Henry Ford’s Epitaph”

May your food turn to blood
may your cars
never rust
may the rural tune of speed
rotate each orbit
of your tired
bosom; may you find
a material
that never wears out; a metal
that doesn’t melt
in the 50′s atomic sun
of a never experienced
future
let it soar, soar!
written in autobahns
by Mercedes engines
Volkswagen wheels
& nazi pamphlets
no one pays
attention to
we should
when he had a chance:
they were the epitaph
of a legend; labor
devil, dictatorious friend
of the plum knife night
impressed
w/ his dream clod
devoid of life
‘cept conveyor belts
& android manpower
I ran w/ the peaks
he leveled
his spark
automobiles hum
on flat automated lanes
veins of a bright illuminated
city
that eats & shits itself out
each cycle
passing this globe
international Jews
of an alien world
paid no attention
to the requiem
radios kept playing:
bright pop songs w/ volk
melodies; strict vocoded voices
carry
incomprehensible
words
up to the tomb of Henry
words like
explo
itation
futur
ism
no longer make sense
in sterile
Plexiglas wombs
w/ looped tapes
of banned speeches
spinning ad
lib, w/ the wisdom of
his medals
on an after-life
dreamwave, he’s chasing death-white
Tibetan demons, beasts from under polar
ice
a horror to behold – his
& Von Braun’s dreams came true
for the good of us all – Luddites,
the non-producers
you, lucky ones escaping
thru the narrow
planetary
chimney
leaving automated
streets
to greater devils
than us
will you write an epitaph
for Henry
on another
virginal planet?