The caddie to-do wasn’t ever much more
than an anglerfishworth of gender trappings;
our souls’ faint inner-shirkings
beg to interrupt the rat race formula
so conveniently laid out for us.
Failure is a foregone conclusion
when you stack the chips a certain way.
Of course, we all must stray
from our internal clocks
for the convenience of our plutocratic overlords.
Demean yourself so you can put food on the table,
then you’ll be the richest of us all, I tells ya.
Then maybe one day you can afford
to take a ride on the merry-go-round
of solid gold. Only one ride though,
are you crazy? We’re not running a charity here.
Or perhaps it would be easier to imagine that we are,
if that’ll help you sleep at night. Anything
to shut youse up for a couple hours, you’re exhausting.
Now go play with the TV in the other room for a while,
and try not to get electrocuted like last time.
Jemblatrons squeeze through the tetrahedra
as though mall cops have some kind of a stake
in all of this.
It’s not uncommon
to see such a prairie-headed analogy
encompassing the flight of the larcenous
concord penguin, be the bird yella or gold,
kite-running or otherwise.
Whether or not we align ourselves
to this illustrious ancient practice
has little to do with our blood sugar content,
though many shallow-ended participants
profess prediabetic plight.
It’s laughable how many
times I’ve had to warn
our prospector friends
about the deaths of local canaries.
It seems like at least
three times a week
is the going rate around here,
and they still haven’t picked up the hint.
They just keep spelunking
into those mine shafts as though
they have nothing to lose.
Honestly, who values shiny rocks that much?
You’re going to lose your life
on the hunch that you could
strike it rich? I’d rather
take my chances in an electrical storm.