Our legions are marching on the
City of Rain, our bleeding
feet, bone against concrete,
tearing ruts in the King’s Highway.

We remember the lash and the
hole. We remember Babylon
Ballroom, silver trays of cheese and
meats and candy-twist liqueur, the
splay of light tinkling
wine-filled crystal,

		but later,
hunched over our books and
tearing at stale bread, we
recite the lessons we
will teach you soon:

there is no difference between

	palace and prison,
	champagne and hemlock,
	chandelier and gallows.

When gunfire rips at the hinges of dawn,
we will decorate lampposts with your
heads and feed your tongues to corbies.

When pyres of burnished mahogany
roil the skies of Hell,
we will kill you last,
saving you and savoring as you
boil in the dying screams of your

Pinned to the wall like butterflies,
you will hang in the grand gallery
twitching for centuries among the
handbills of kleptocracy:

	your economies of fraud,
	grifters in the boardroom, jowls
	dripping with grease,

	your genocides of neglect,
	sucking the bones of your
	feasting tables clean
	while abandoned children and stray dogs
	fight for scraps
	in your alleys
	in your roach-ripe tenements
	in fields scalding with immigrants
	in the flesh-caked machines of your factories
	in your third worlds
	on your oil-soaked beaches
	in extinctions that once were forests
	aflame with birdsong

	in the shadow of church bells
	tolling beneath your mansions.

This Do in the Name of Commerce,

we are your shareholders now, flooding down the
Valley of Chrome, like
rose petals and ticker tape and gun oil.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s