SHOOTING INTO THE VOID
Pistoleros, 1,2,3. The world ends like
this : riding cheap tank tracks over
all this rubble, like a mental sore
that wants to take over. Marshall
Tito sis-boom-bah. Chairman Mao,
rah-rah-rah. This thing still smokes,
twenty-five broken places where
families once lived : kids crying
and parents dying. And if it's the
other way around, so what. Anyway,
the world ends not with a bang, but
with a whimper. Remember that?
Building rubble. Real estate bubble.
All these guys sure know the way.
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