When A Capitalist Goes To Sleep Does It Dream Of Electric Money?


Enlisted as jovial entrails,
We’re bottom feeders

Teetering on vertebrae.

I imagine soft communism
And hard
Tending to their
Rediscovering religion

And this is how they’d pray.

Whistling Dixie
Through the gaps
In their smile, or a fed poses
By placing their elbow
On their kneecap
And resting their chin
On their hand, palm facing upward.

It’s massaging a dimple
Where words
Should go. I’m free
To shave in the mornings.
I’m free to sleep at night.
I’m free to stare at walls
Rather inside
Or out,
The difference is palpable.

When he styles the cardboard tube,
Depleted of toilet paper,
To resemble a revolver
And it’s
Not obvious
And it’s
Not reasonable-

Carry the ambiguity
And swallow the bullets
Six-fold at a time,
Ammunition tastes
Like the change
Of dollars spent.

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