Trapped by the Pyramid
Ponzi schemers blast
hot water straight
from the hose into their own nostrils,
attaining the next
step
up the pyramid,
each winner
terrified of the wirewalker
within—
that pirouette kid who
risked the wind on a thin line
from tower to
tower,
where he could finally
talk to
his heart
and
listen
to the clouds—
deeply
cemented
in
their midas-touched brains,
those lofty vaults
filled with bouncing
bingo balls
and the swirling
calculus of
fairyland,
where
trees
exist as top down diagrams
of some logical
process,
some tepid
chain of
commands
rooted in
shallow pools of gutless rage
crowded with jelly and
blind to the
moon-blessed
tides
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