Picture a beautiful castle atop a

warm green hill.

Golden prairies here and there

abloom with the unstrung loom

of Gaia, our sun queen, mother

Earth alive on high, humble white

                                             pastures, tended to by

masters—yes gods, yes kings—

all an ode to the faster, the better,

those few folk on the upswing, living

high life, other half life, the up-and 

-across-the-track’s-type, all alive and 

vivid in the moody interior of beautiful 

castles atop brilliant, astroturfed hills.

            (The fire snaps, crackles, and pops)

                        Wintry whistles in the chimney,

                        Crisp toast spread with melted butter,

                        Leather-seated cars shining sharply

                              on their rims

                        And kindly smiles from the sun

                              whenever it peaks out

                              from behind the clouds.

            But descend a few steps to the foot

            of this giant, gilded thing, and all

            that still glitters is a dream

      Damned souls wading in the shade of

      a glorious castle without a thing for which

      to show, crows chirping instead of

      hummingbirds’ tunes, and beer in place of

      finely-aged champagne—

                                           “Shanpany,”

      they say, but does that make it something

            other than the Devil’s confection?

All the sins in the world brought

forth under the rigid gaze of the sun

—the anti-diligence, the anti-temperance,

the anti-patience—and they offer

industriousness as the new philosopher’s

stone,

         Atone! they cry, Atone for your

crimes and let it be done; let none be saved

from that scalding gaze, the pain, the

voyage of the beagle, tried and true, of little

worker bees, me and you—

                                       don’t be greedy,

don’t be needy, just be hardy—that’s all it takes!

What’s one measly year without two coins to shake!?

                                    “Sterile and silent land;

                               it is of ours that I am speaking.”

Black shadows

White wisps

No words for Washington,

      none still for the 

third, for there’s nothing to say of dead men 

lying dead—six feet shy of the sun’s rigid gaze.