Bit-Coin Orgy

Check out Johnny Payne’s other poem published here on TGU.


Between nanoseconds I wonder


whether ectoplasm like melted silver


dollars can slip through the eye


of a needle. Does a camel


crumble into tobacco shreds


blown by the wind into the slot of an ATM?



Never revealing its chrome secret


the techno-teller gives like the Buddha


and not like a slot machine


that can’t make up its mind


whether reciprocity is really


a virtue. The economy wooed me


with the promise it was based


on rational principlesbut my girlfriend


said the same about our relationship.



O thou trembling roseyour rug burns


are all that remain of a love more exquisite


than chocolate drizzled around a large plate


with a small entrée in the middle.



Those sly Eastern proverbs


tricked me into believing that


non-attachment was the same


as uncoupling a U-Haul trailer


so I could leave everything


behind except


the last cassette in the last tape player


destined to turn its thread


trapped by nonchalant gears


into a twenty-foot string.



When I cut the tape into


confetti strips


nymphets sensing a party


appear out of nowhere


alabaster, two fingers shy of trampy


to conspire with the wiles


of a bit-coin shaman who flirts


with chastity until he realizes


its verbal paradox. The Silk Road


genius is going to jail. Now


who will defraud us with


a patois thicker than almond paste?



Moral bankruptcy is more corrupt


than an actual


Chapter Nine direct result


of the housing collapse.



Desiderata flit around me with giant wings


like a circus troupe of super heroines


moths that ate their way through the


pocket



of a suit coat where I kept my integrity


in case I ran out of coins to throw


at the meter maid that dupe of


democracy


who was “just following orders.”



Someone gamed


the global banking system


to cleanse the landscape


of overvalued real estate worse


than if Florida had actually sunk


into the Atlanticas so many predicted.


Panther, stork and manatee


stalk the marsh, waiting on foreclosure


to do what ecologists couldn’t.



Surgically enhanced harpies


in a collective taxi straight from South


Beach


incarnate the double entendre


of the word bust, and set up an


antistrophic


wail, an unwitting paean to catastrophe


because the nervous staccato clicks


of their high heels happen to sound


like a syncopated flamencogay


as the city council of Fort Lauderdale.



O electronic blips


sparks without a starspray without


an ocean, whistle without steam


please light up the sky


dispersed thunderheads from Jupiter


to Cuba.



Like a bereft octopus


at a pool party with a naked chick


on each arm pretending to be


love children of Paul Volcker


and Donna Shalala


this downturn casting off


its stale metaphor


can go all directions at once


without a séance without regret.

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