life loans out its loneliness disproportionately
we stand in lines of disapproval hoping to get some
we nourish our souls in their disappointments
bury our feelings in caskets of Kryptonite
lead lined in case our vision allows us to see;
dogma of revolution is the new religion
and we burn all our crosses of despair for warmth
when winter approaches and we have no more homes
in which to entertain all our illegal immigrants;
life collects its debt with each unburied death
leaving them hanging on the walls with the Pollocks
and all the obscure Italian painters from the Renaissance
whose lives were worth less than all their forgeries;
one-by-one we dismantle all our disbeliefs
refurbishing them into household slogans to
inspire the wicked and deaf and all willing spirits
who have returned from Europe for a deserved rest.
29 November 2020
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