the angel anarchica

as black stars align
she ascends from
the cold war ether
on riot wings
into a decadent age
prepared for her
like a five-star table
complete with swan napkin,
silicon seared tuna,
and free speech salad fork

deep in the night
after the dead world
has turned off its corporate lights,
she walks dim lit streets
where today's Tschaikovskys wander
in intricate drug "mazes,"
finding decreasingly forbidden lovers,
or simply taking bohemian quiet

but there will be happenings,
paintings and symphonies,
feasts and famines,
rumors of nuclear wars
and quite possibly nuclear wars

she blesses the corruption
that rots the edifice
so that progress can slip in