Just Call Me Nostradamus

Hey, All You Inquiring Minds.

I wrote the following poem about September 11'th 2001, which, co-incidentally, was also the weirdest working day of my entire natural life.

Just Call Me Nostradamus

I was selling paper clips to a disembodied voice when the Twin Towers,
Once mistaken for the pillars of Skull Island by the Mighty Kong,
Evaporated into dust.
"My brother's downtown!" it shrieked before the line went dead.

To this day I'm convinced that Tibetan priests in Motuo knew what was happening before we did.  
Exiled in our hermetically-sealed vending machine,
The only scraps of information came from troubled but resolute customers,
Who, like spawning salmon, refused to acknowledge the end of the world until they fulfilled their destiny of procurement.     

A prototypical Arab Spring against the media blackout finally coalesced,
And a cathode ray town crier was ensconced in an alcove of the commissary.  
Plates of gelatinous poutine went cold
As we frittered away our state-sanctioned thirty minute lunch breaks
Watching granite-faced news anchors gamely attempt to convince us that James Bond villains were very real indeed.   
And, for some reason, they all despise us.

I stumbled back to my Potemkin-grey enclosure
And re-assumed the mandible-crown.  
A fellow serf turned to me and asked:
"What is it?  What's going on?" 
And I looked at him and said:
"America's going fascist."  

I then made myself ready
To take endless orders 
For business-related detritus.  
Which, even on that sad day, 
Never stopped.