on shoelaces, or O, J-, where art thou?

our brains feel nauseated
and the air is bleak and woozy.
another dead cowboy of advertising
falls in the veil of cashmere
trailed by a funeral parade of seven cop cars
lights flashing brighter than the fireworks
of a new year begun on the heaving breast of a sharp shooter.

they took my gloves, my hat, my scarves
but left my space age party alone