Death to the Editor-In-Chief

With proper handling,
My soul will awake in the dark of a brown envelope.
On its chest, I have sweet-talked a mighty god into cutting a deal,
I have begged the kindness of greats,
Of Mohammed & Buddha & Krishna,
Some special gamble.

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

One piece of work that will not an oily confection wrap,
Or block out the sun in some dusty attic.
My soul will awake in the dark of a brown envelope,
To heal the sick, to raise the dead,
To walk upon water,
Comfort a daughter touched,
Heal a wife trampled,
Skin a lacking father.

My soul will awake in the dark of a brown envelope,
One piece of work that will upset mankind,
Every Tom, Dick, and Sally,
Everyone but the mighty editor-in-chief, thus:

“It was a starry night,
The moon held a southern arrogance,
A fabulous morning,
The sun was hotter than an Obalende whorehouse.
And the village drunk roamed the train tracks
hunting down his wallet.”

My soul will awake in the dark of a brown envelope,
Even though I know by smell the madness of an editor-in-chief,
He walks in worried his suspenders are too-stylish,
Like this, 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 good kidney,
Can you give us a good kidney?

Commercial,
Lovelorn,
Fatalistic,
Bed-wetting,
Snake oil,
Motherfuckers,
I weep in my beer.
And now, by the bar,
Slinks a contagion,
Everyone must hate an editor or two.

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.
Need a refill? I am interrogated.

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.
Need a refill?
A timid yes.

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