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Permanent Fatal Errors (from Ruthless Grip Poems)

The bread is pretense,
the butter is hypocrisy,
I'm not afraid of monsters,
monsters are afraid of me.
The midget is insane.
He holds a press conference.
He's got a computer chip in his head --
every word he speaks
comes from the assassin in a secret room.
The assassin's face is shadow
shifting in shadow.
Hymns fill the wind,
Money sits on a throne,
and I'm writing with a stolen pen.
A long long time ago,
before they learned to shine,
them stars up in the sky had broken hearts.
Nothing lasts forever --
not your joy and not your sorrow.


This poem appears in the 2004 Anthology
View all poems by Chris Toll