Stop with your false modesty or I’ll send my black ops
to shake you down like a poorly dressed central banker.
Stand up, and claim the type from your fingers.
Sit down and tell me a story.
Keep me occupied for the next 98 seconds
and troubled for the day. Lay your lines
like a straight flush out-of-order, fuck with my mind.
Do it now, in metaphor like a middle aged man
by the side of the road commanding cloud formations,
chemtrails and alien visitation.
Shake the planet with your small feet, your four score
and seven, the Word of your God on parchment,
the shake of your fist in wicked air, the fire blue eyes
make when their lakes dry and something else kindles.
Take my mind and demand recognition. You’ve got a few