To touch the sky, grope it illicitly —
Megan’s law for the ephemeral bits
to be on a watch-list for (a lack of) life —
for a vomit of – what we shall call
Oh, cheers and jeers coming down like a ballast,
a ballast with a bible verse etched on it, no less.
The man in the business suit does not just touch the sky
but with a button on his lapel of his face smiling,
slides a finger down a private part
of the now.
Not to stand on the shoulders of giants,
he never heard of Atlas tossing the earth;
the brass tacks of the matter underpin the matter.
Fat man —
a man as fat as his head
with belts like equators,
holding his illicit thoughts in—
wears his emotion around his neck
on a fat gold chain marked “Happiness,”
starts a monopoly mainly to not pass through,
and brands like cattle the ass of the poor.
He’d have an illicit affair with himself
if only somebody would turn the lights on.
With a pudgy little finger,
wearing someone else’s wedding ring.
his thick hands go to the globular,
and he puts the sky in his pocket,
calling it a perusal of his dream —
where it most definitely, certainly, absolutely, conspiratorially, does not want to be —
him hoarding its freedom.
The shadiest characters can make their shadow
from a spotlight.
To the world, he’s the uncle in the corner
whose articulation is vulgar, but not avuncular,
a whodunit of soul’s murder,
of one who does not own for himself
Show Michael some love via PayPal at kael.thomas.smith(at)gmail(dot)com.