Ian Cappelli

Hit a Wall Street wino with my Volvo

and everybody blamed the blood

alcohol. The wino’s a beloved supposed

philanthropist, so no real jail-time was

granted. I sent my apologies to the sun.

Was forced to loan my car-keys with

a repo-prone kind of bootheel,

while taking “fearless moral inventory”

to dump out in the church bin.

Came back to a ride-share pyramid

scheme. All scattergories of workers

wheel out encyclicals, IOUs to their

former selves. I will not get there,

I’m siphoning gas from my own car,

getting off the grid and naked

onto the gridiron. We must strike

-through our day-jobs until we streak

the hills! Cow-tipping parking meters

until our pockets are full. Disunionizing

ourselves until the carpool cops

disincorporate us. Tell me, what stops

the world except your own perception?

It’s worlds, worlds and worlds easier

to envision “the end” than the end

of your suffering.