You know what? Screw the man
and his blanched institutions,
his rigidified apparatus.
I have my own motor to suck.
The avenue’s casual blisters.
Midmorning heat with a midweek sheen.
Fine, so we’ll polish the protectors,
projectors, protracted sublimity.
The last bastion of progress
and its myriad bugs.
Ball up the horizon like wet tissue.
Here we’ve learned to walk
the talk back to its roots.
A portentous wind brings financial upheaval.
Of this we shall sing,
well into the cemetery’s depths.