The Key to Trust

They wear these garments
in violence
Humble houses turned closet,
mighty feed bins of the moth, guarded
in schlage we trust

Keep the nebulous men who,
at property line, loiter
they need not strike for their weapon
goes before them
and strikes the heart of those who trust
in schlage alone

To escape:
pamper pompously
overfed and lethargic
bloated lumps struggling vainly
to be beautiful requires your everything
to be rich only requires your soul

Parties: silk bows of flagrant shimmer
satin dresses of elusive design
effusing all with stabs of discontent
the murderous joneses
finishing with final blows of accomplished word
third degree burns of hot air

Speaking of abstract oppression and
trendy genocide
throw a morsel to their cause
who snatches it up, beaten dog
beneath their arrogance

Speaking in loftiness
their tongues walk the earth
their mouths cursed against the heavens
secret lives of distaste, decoys
of a real life projected onto our dreams

Turn me away,
let me not lap up their lies
(beaten dog as i am)
self-deluded emptiness 

tin shell struck
hollow of timbre
Is God out to lunch? no one
is tending this spinning top

Friends and riches piled high
behind golden gates
of schlage eviscerated,
emaciated, wanting of crumbs
down a dirty path with lepers and beggars
look up to see wickedness, stare unblinkingly

look higher, past this
to you descending in grand theophany
a mirror to show
it’s me
behind those gates
in schlage we trust

*Cover photo by Daryn Barttlet

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