why the charlatan prospers

what's a heaven really for,
a short straw for sale to grasping.

(you can have your cake
in the prosperity of the Lord-

grind hard, dismiss the other,
be blind to the gaunt walker

on a salt water sea

that is glassy yet not reflective:

to be happy is transgression,
joy another a fetish
demanding the singe of burning stone-

ray, as always, a drop of golden sun:

the golden calf grows chatty
on a couch with skyward hooves,

a secret feast of lucious denial-

projection only belabors the point,
transference more the pity,

the id:

oh nevermind!)

it's just a purchase of wait
for a world beyond one's reach:

sinners keep their digits on the pouch,
perdition's better than insult.