words are not words
ideas are not ideas
everything is market potential
everything is for sale

please build your Babel,
let it rise gleaming to the skies
a towering antenna of image
broadcasting an angle and hook;
wear a top hat (or bowler) and tails
and dance while the grinder plays
as you hold your tin cup forth
until suitable crowds amass
doing whatever it takes.

there are no more unknowns,
there are only profit margin poets,
we whores of serif’d letters
calling to the kindly folks
who will gladly hold the megaphone
for a small fee of blood
until it all falls faithlessly to the earth
and we are scattered in ignorance
dumb to one-another

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