the markets never close

on Wall street the the numbers ripen and fall
the cunning crew in control
spilling their gusto and assembling shells under which lay luxury and unlimited access
to last laughs
think tanks that sell and collect debt and thwart thought
getting everyone feeling lucky like a gambler drunk in a saloon
the police stand by whispering to ghosts of Al Capone.

The right stuff gutted
Surreal music emerging, giving an imitation of some childhood tune
bright lights when you score , bright lights when you miss
smoke and mirrors showing the best side of the misfits.

ears ringing after the terror
out of body experiences not rare in this neighborhood
trans-mortality lingering on soft tissue
just guessing but secret police recording
feeling sore all over, feeling jubilation too, for a time


down on Wall Street the numbers ripen
the markets never close so they don't need to reopen