The tell-tale liars emerge
when all the salesman
has left to hawk is
the relentless logic of his close
And the City
falls away from stone
onto sweetly
blinking steam
The last grounds of autonomy
go through the press
and one is held to the mediocrity
of one's half-assed, half-cocked status
Identity shifts like debt from one
credit to another,
warm as cigarette smoke
and just as fungible
But one can still play
dress up, wear musty
conductor's hats and debutante fur
from heirloom status attics
And speak of fabled lives
that glow beyond the rest
the smarter, harder-charging ones
whose names go on the gifts
In the constant interchange
between the accomplished and alive
between the ones blessed to be living
and the one's who've stolen a piece of God's mind
