When I Wasn’t Rich

My assembly’s on fire,
indecision engulfs us.

Condoms for our hearts,
packaging for our minds—
products and problems

made-up like exploitation,
we run from our sighs.

A trembling crossfade
monetizes the situation;
a mirrored room aligned to parties

whiter than a powdered sun—
nights here incite everyone.

A lion stalks a question
to ward the palsied speaker—
tripping waves, upending

his regular rotation.
“If you’re not faking,

are you out paying your dues?”
When I wasn’t rich,
we’d read poetry in our fitted jeans;

bitching about the irony
of the shared history

of Hipsters and Hitler—
youth disaffected; misunderstood
truths collected into

volumes of hurts with their
Flashdances, flooding the floor

with their swinging moods.
It seems the Muse missed her
period; that bitch we’ll never have-at.

And I can’t un-write that. It’s “art”.
You’ve got to never look back.