Where is the shimmy, where is the shake,
The icy cold goblin who lives in the lake,
The lady with the tarot enigmatically adding weights?
When I took this job, I had no idea
The results mean nothing, that the work is all,
And everything left over mere rationalization for the toil,
To be squandered in your free time, like mother's milk and pretzels.
The world inwardly exposed can be used to climb the stations of the cross
And to cast off commitments that would whittle away at your soul
If your mind was not occupied in impossible things
That whisper their existence, but disappear
In the seams between the world's life rattle and your mortal coil.
The bats that play in the rafters
And the wasps that escape to the light
To avoid our treacly desecrations
Have no hope of fame, for their world is too real,
But unless you can pass your demons on to the rest
They will remain your demons, and like parasites possess you,
To die when you can no longer hold them tight.
The angels don't want to listen to your stories, for to them
Dreams are all equal, they are what got you there.
For now, there are only invisible readers waiting while you are searching
For another reason to continue.
