“Far from the marketplace and from fame
happens all that is great:
Far from the marketplace and from fame
the inventors of new values
have always dwelt.” - Zarathustra
The stink of excuse
rises from every pore –
paper and metal excuse,
system of death deferred,
life on the installment plan.
These things that serve themselves,
these golden calves,
cast and worshipped
above the hand that cast it:
how can that be –
we worship creators, no?
Corrupt surface,
a sheet of ice, everything slides
down to an inevitable –
wait, inevitable, really?
Why is the death coded in?
Why is the death coded in?
These, your talismans,
like chickens of proverb,
have come home to roost.
They are idea.
They are value.
They are world.
There is no room left
for what has become
beneath, even, contempt.
That dollar is a crumple of paper.
The blood in my eyes has nothing to do with paper.
That gold is no more than flavored lead.
The tremor in my voice
has nothing to do with sullen metal.
The voice that tears from deep within
speaks not of gold, silver, or paper.
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