The Golden Touch
moonrich
& loaded
with plastic
&
scraps
of wood,
just used
clothes & old
rags,
all the note
paper,
button downs & tees
piled in
my treasure house,
weighing down,
weighed down
yo ho ho with spoils
old pennies old buttons old
rags, pencil stubs
& the bust of a man
gone down in
his suit
& tie,
the last stylish haircut
& neat wire framed bifocals
scuffed up in the
black snow,
in the grit & grease
& all that rubber dust
ground off SUV tires with the dog
shit & horse shit
& bullshit—
what
kind
of man emerges from
that husk,
pupating now in
post-capitalist cocoon,
perhaps putting
aside
caterpillar entitlement
to all the green
leaves
on the tree?
his silence,
such silence
now,
profound, really,
considering:
so shortly ago,
his megaphone on
stun,
preaching right & free
for all money,
digital & yes
real,
& cheering ever higher
wax-winged flights
between risk &
profit & pocket
& Santa’s pouch &
the leprechaun hordes
of golden steaming piles &
the pure
filament of evil greed
spun so true by Rumpelstiltskin’s
trolly
paws
while gripping the girl’s
thigh with a leer
it’s all
about the money,
the
clinging, hairy
stench of dirty
dandruff
whisking
from hand
to hand
at
the
bank
for me these
rags are gold,
this paper
golden, &
this pen the
scepter of god
No comments:
Post a Comment