THE TRICKSTER IS STILL AROUND
Not Loki or Enki,
not Coyote who stole fire
or Wakjunkaga who made
himself some women’s parts
and gave birth to three sons.
This one carries his tiny penis
in a jumbo jet. His wives
and daughters are plastic dolls,
his sons the undead.
He eats honor, shits coal.
His houses are built of bones.
Make no mistake:
somewhere under our nice
we want to be like him—
possess without limit,
rule without shame.
He shows us, uncovers us.
Unless we change our lives,
he will never go away.
GladErrand 
Holy Cow! quite an amazing rant of a poem! Surely you could write about flowers and butterflies? flutter and flower-flies? The second stanza hit me like a club. well done!
Thanks. I’ve lately been listening to lectures about myth in history, and was really taken by the Trickster who is thought to be necessary to shake a culture out of its complacency. That whole idea gives me a kind of hope.
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Mary, you nailed it!