"Brave New World," whispered Huxley

"Brave New World,"
whispered Aldous Huxley
when the president went golfing
under a clear blue Florida sky
with the foreign wife carrying his junk
and a bottle of fancy dye
for his orange hair;
he used a net,
(somewhat like a devout Mennonite woman
with her fancy mustache
that she tried to conceal from the adoring crowds
gathered on the steps of a Christian mega-church
hoping for a sight of baby Jesus
heading to the back nine)
to scoop his balls from the rough,
tickling,
placing them in a more advantageous position on the fairway.
across the pond
beyond his driver's range
there was a rumored chemical attack
that wasn't due to an expired box of hair coloring
or a missed putt on the 18th green
or a recent attempt to hide an old affair with a young porn actress;
no, an actual barrel bomb dropped from the clear blue sky
onto a suburban street of eastern Damascus, Syria
and if very young children happened to be playing in a pile of their broken dreams
or busted stones, or watching a skinny bird pick through rubble for a crumb of food,
while noxious fumes of chlorine
sought out noses
pried open lips
groped lungs
invaded throats
well,
that would be too damn bad
assumed the adults who planned the attack,
piloted the military helicopter,
assembled the bomb,
and the men who gave the order to launch,
because they would expect a pleasant evening
surrounded by pleasant family,
amazingly untroubled by disturbing visions or nightmares
or threats of demotion or stories of demolition,
imagining themselves playing golf with the President,
whatever President,
regardless of his country of origin,
applause greeting their every easy step to the waiting clubhouse.
"Brave New World,"
whispered Aldous Huxley,
as everyone swallowed their pill.