Death to the Editor-In-Chief

I sent my soul away in a brown envelope.
I sweet-talked a mighty god into cutting me a deal,
I begged the kindness of the greats,
Of Mohammed & Buddha & Krishna,
For a special gamble.

One piece of work that will seduce nuns,
And blonde with age underneath an inmate’s bed,
Infect the thinking of a mute lad,
Electrify a copycat.

One piece of work that will not an oily confection wrap,
Or block out the sun in some dusty attic.
I sent my soul away in a brown envelope,
To heal the sick, to raise the dead,
To walk on water,
Comfort a daughter molested,
Heal a wife trampled,
Skin a father lacking.

One piece of work that will upset mankind,
Every Tom, Dick, and Sally,
Everyone but the mighty editor-in-chief.

It was a starry night,
The moon held a certain arrogance,
It was a fabulous morning,
The sun was hot as fuck.
And the village drunkard roamed the train tracks
hunting down his wallet.

I know the madness of an editor-in-chief,
I know the cancer of an assassin too,
The constant want to dismantle,
The appetite to butcher.

I know the smell of a dying dream
It reads thus:

Dear Author —
Thanks, but no thanks.
We regret to inform you,
That we are memoired-out,
We want a kidney,
Can you give us a kidney?

Snake oil,

Who made you dogs over us?
Who took your bite?
As luck would have it,
How much you must loathe thyself for being,
With little honesty –
A bungled writer like me,
A seed in a hard place,
An oily quarter in a couch trench.

It has been said that your bald-head did not come by accident,
And that your salt-and-pepper graying was not an early chromosomal affair.
Snip, snip, tip, top,
A dream nosebleeds,
A woman deeps,
A life leaks.