The Master of His Johnson

The circles we run
have incorporated
themselves.

Fanatical seals
embossed reveal
the tells:

dollars signed
silently; fingers
in the pie—

Doubting Thomas
sighs feeling
aligned

star in the harmless
pilot—Prometheus
vicars us

sermons scripted
to keep each of us
confined,

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.