The free will market
My will is paroled, indeed,
but no more free than shop-candy.
The god who stole away in my head
forgot he cannot steal it whole.
And the aching structure peels
that bastard’s body out like wax
through the ear he babbles in.
Poor thing, parasite divine,
that scared all the coasts of water.
Oh, to sell the nonexistence
of nothings to no one in particular—
to make something serene of a seizure—