theocracy in clouds
the threads of turmoil mumble mongst' mongrel crowds
and happy clown feasts
the banquet is bare

the bulb shows me light
and I pay heed to its piper note
reading paper punchlines
and interweb propaganda

ride along soothed by the sun
smoothed with the wind
rub elbows with my kin

and wonder
if the end comes
not with a bang
but the whimper

will I be ready?
will I have set my end straight?
or am I running from the gate
the voices hounding
the faces floundering

the ghosts are we
tethered to our wants our needs
our dream scripts run
static free

hooked up to cable
and pharma pills
the poor mans SOMA
appease with little thrill

perhaps the bushmans right
away from all the treachery
and self right

set his works to the fire of heaven

and I
listen with cocked head
digital beauty
wonderland
dread