 I came here today, I have a little voice trouble to the surgery, but I came here today. I said, I am not going to do an angry political poem. No way. No, let's do a comic political poem. The war of the worlds in S. F. Womp, womp, pelicans plop on our iron roof, gulls start sounding off, it's dawn. I see a black man in a wheelchair dozing under a palm tree. It's cold, he's clad in a faded field jacket, harried commuters halt the lights green. I look at unsmiling faces. The cars look like crabs. The occupants resemble H. G. Wells's Martians. I give the vet two bucks. I hate wheelchairs. I shout, U.S. out of Iraq. I hear, U.S. out of Iraq. Martians hiding in doorways. Near home, I see a many skirted Martian wheeling around, slow, mo. She raises her dress to reveal her nudity, commuter, traffic, halts. A John asks, how much? She sighs, I come cheap, a pimp on a cell phone. Eyes me with disgust. He curses in Martian alien-inhabited turns, snatch pits of refuse from scurrying pigeons. I dodge a Martian hooker with mottled teeth as I crumble, brah, H. G. Wells.