Mad Max and the Tiny House

Refugees cross open sea on rubber rafts,
thrust children into the arms of strangers,
and we who rest in peace debate their fate.
The nomad, the anomaly.
For now.

A tiny house feels like the wisest
form of luxury.
Keto vs paleo,
dye gray hair blond, and
blond hair gray,
hashtag nubile fantasies,
and animate your porn.
We are given to desire,
seeking pleasure, shunning pain.
Yet future pain must wait for you
who will not see it
riding forth.

The future is in pain.
And yet one hopes…
that if you choose the tiny house,
and hashtag simple pleasure,
if you listen mindfully,
and buy vegan leather,
you will lessen the delight
of evil’s reign tomorrow.

It’s as though we see
a leather-clad warrior
cross the desert
on stolen fuel.
Already weary of this vision –
the assumption that
change must suck
we each pare down,
to the essentials,
a life to make us happy now.

It is as though a tiny house
will keep Mad Max on Blu-Ray,
a dark fantasy,
and not
a prediction.

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