I know the counterfeit music the phony talk
I know somebody is going to get the shit knocked out of them

—Frank Stanford

Please note the pure silk blooms
intertwined with polyester petals
on the admin assistant’s desk.
She must never guess
how insidious that design.
When you seek access
to the secret records
they will let you in easy even if
your ID is a fuzzy Hubble nebula.
They will offer more than enough
proper cream for your coffee
handing you an amulet a token saint
to hang around your neck
a medal that says in a hidden code
Shoot me—I’m the One.
Once out of sight
take off the jewelry of betrayal.
You must decipher the whereabouts
of the only possible escape latch
only through the lowest watt radio
station which is a cup of Styrofoam
swept away by wind
you have to catch.
Then you crouch beneath
a ceiling growing lower and lower
where starvelings will crawl on their bellies
to get to the last library
of the free world’s bread.

Watch out for the shaven skulls
tattooed in Nazi Hills all eyes dead
since puberty the military robot boys
that shoot with metal alloy cast.
They will pan you they will melt you down
if you shine like loose solid gold.
Go lead-eyed as a junker in primer;
never cast reflection in plate glass.
Hang back be lax with not enough
backbone to kiss big government rear.
Lean on the street lamp play almost dead
because they will kill you
if you walk away too fast
if they suspect you
can wiggle an ear.

[Editor’s Note: Publication of this poem was made possible by a donation from John Rogers during our annual Kickstarter.]