The Master of His Johnson

The circles we run
have incorporated

Fanatical seals
embossed reveal
the tells:

dollars signed
silently; fingers
in the pie—

Doubting Thomas
sighs feeling

star in the harmless
vicars us

sermons scripted
to keep each of us

but man must fly
and can tonight: chains
can’t hinder us.

The master of his Johnson
smokes ’em to the ground—
fameless fire

making its rounds
can’t ignite or shoot down
shame—let’s inspire

ourselves to rise; I feel you like
the rising sun dancin’
’round circumstances;

won’t you meet the height
of your Self and abandon your
control to Chance’s?

Surrender certainty
if it can’t clarify taking
caution; you’ve got to try

making your own life
the lie into which
you buy.