To Pay Rent

I would have goals but today
someone else decides them for me.
They tell me to express what these goals are
to my contemporaries and superiors

as if I have created them for my Mona Lisa herself,
some magnum opus hopeless.

We all know deep down inside
that this is what I feel: my goal,

which is their goal,
which makes the world spin,
and gets money stained.

Makes balls stay up high and in vast numbers,
makes things come full circle
and has nothing to do with Shakespeare.

I admit this fact ashamedly, uselessly, truthfully—

I am no where I am not supposed to be
when I am somewhere else entirely.

And I have no goals that are actually mine;
I call them by a different name.

I call them… I forget as I don’t want them
to be stolen from me again.
I keep them very close
and I am well armed
with bright insight and sharp suspicion.

And someone thought capitalism was good.
And I thought oh man, tell me another joke.

 

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