Take measure of your office
the market economy of your reason d’être
gate-crashing with coins in your eyes

where is the peace in subterfuge
from feeding wolves with the ghosts
of those you sent away
of selling your only Jesus
to extend the faded warmth of Autumn

misinterpreting the red shift
singing Jodies out of cadence
crafting self-destructing messages
which one of these will cause you to give up the coastline today

in The Listening there is a detachment from diagnostics
where within the probability of reasonableness
overt or implied
the mirror would surely suggest that advice be sought only
from those whose deaths came with anonymity

or you can dress it up in red
wielding an adult weapon with a child’s capacity
searching for night crawlers to rule your mass

because a forced performance is your signature brand
souls taken by deception and used for glue

taken in stride as in the end of days when
“even at the grave we make our song.”

06/14/2009

Author's Note: Quote courtesy: Book of Common Prayer, Burial Rite II, page 49

To be read live on PSH today at 2pm Pacific time.

Posted on 06/14/2009
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