Sell the Air

from by Miracle Worker



Sell the air, sell the light, sell the water, sell the darkness.
Install a fountain in a concrete park. Dedicate a tree to a tycoon philanthrope.
As crippled seniors we will walk there, to admire our ruler's kindness.
This is the outcome of the crusade. Everything will be explained.
The Blood on the shield (lustrous). The dissidents crushed (condemned). The savages tamed (listless). The artistry maimed.

You want to take my place, move inside, steal all the grace that I hide.
You want to poach my heart with an elephant gun, because you're putty on a plate
seeking shape.

Secular celibates are hiring. Be ever-mindful of your comments. Curtail your future to their liking.
Slip into amorphous doom.

Tell me this is over. I can barely step outside.
The headhunters roving, party's shills are coaxing me to sign the service form.
Pay for higher living in utilitarian sheds. Paying for the space to wither.
They sense that I'm alien, my Shostakovich suitcase, leaning up against the door.

It's so easy to forget my pulse, when I'm caught in the breakneck tide.
Our necks are broken, spilling our marbles. I can't rejoice in the stupor.
All of the dutiful maintenance isn't enough, to stave off the leeches.


from Copacetic Blues, released January 1, 2012



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