Coins clink down
and make homes in sewers,
the avenue rivers washing them
each and every storm, in flashes
they ride the lightning.

We ride the lightning,
counting our worth with dead green
men, who straddled freedom
and rode it into the smallest of rooms.

Quietly, cautiously, we temper
our restlessness, with pronunciations
to the gods
that we’ve made our own now;
you trees and mountains,
take a knee now, we have our
Zuckerberg and Musk, a computer in our palm,
mirrors built to make us slimmer
so we may fit in every prestigious slot.

We make graves in cars,
passing over underground treasure,
cutting off the lightning, with brush,
with a stroke we slit out the lightning.

The forgotten things brace the lightning,
flaming as specters
beneath the changing moon.

We breathe in the bulb that buzzes
like a wasp, we lick the stars
on the screens
that dance as memories about us;
when we dream, we dream
of our teeth falling out, being
trapped back in high school.

Yet last night,
I dreamed of silver coins
shining in rain and lightning,

with faces of kings, with no eyes,
unable to see the lightning.