Tony reads the news
smokes a joint
bites his lip hard, spins
and goes out to see the stylist;
have his hair turned red.
 

--It's about time
his inner voice sings.
--Why so dull for so long?
He doesn't hear a thing.
 

Walking with a new head
within the city's tendrils,
he's a bobbing red flame,
an aspect; electric boots and
a belt that shines have him flying.
 

In all this
Tony forgets what he's read:
the left hand column of print
fades to blue;
the right hand column
too fades to blue.
 

But a memory on page 7
holds him like a damp finger
on fresh ice.
Images of waste unconfuse--briefly:
nuclear mountains in the suburbs
waves of poison overflowing
his stash obscured, even his charm
by the images, cold and funny
as in Death.