A Poetry to Save the People

The syringes of several yogis attempt to suck this leather world into enlightenment,
but the edges fringe  
and the buckle unlaces back into capital again.  
The pop-up buildings  
spring from the page  
where the soul soft-lights by incandescent haze,  
and the night is clipped of stars by the bulbs of their toiling there.  
  
Beds rise from stuffy suites to seek their masters' flying head  
and chain it down for one "I pray the Lord my soul to keep".  
But green flames of bills smoked out the kitchen  
because the salary worker can never go back.  
   
Expatriates of this earth hop the muse balloon and carry on to the primordial consciousness.  
Discover what's wrong in your dark,  
let it out into flare scathing the high atmosphere  
of our nation's flesh.  
   
We're fellow citizens of that surreality as we abandon our bodies to lower worlds where the toughest were all that mattered.  
And I presume to this book of globes  
that the first artist holds the answer.