Fool’s Gold

Everything I touch
turns to bronze.

And I’m tossing the blame
like a burning coal.

But, come on,
the finish line keeps moving,
and I’m not tall enough,
and I brought the wrong shoes
and my partner’s lagging,
and my stupid controller’s busted,
and my rabbit’s foot’s all dried up,
and I’m too goddamn tall for this,
and the Midases flying past
don’t know how lucky they got it

’cause everything I touch
turns to bronze.

And the smoldering remains
of the coal have
nowhere left to go.
Last stop: a pile of ash
in my own two hands.

Everything I touch
turns to bronze.

And waiting for gold next time
is the definition of insanity.
So watch out for
the madman on the loose—
he’s got it bad like Cortés.
He’s fevered, and he’s blind
to the river of bronze
gushing in his wake,
unaware of this angle,
this certain angle,
where every last bit of metal
comes together like a firework,
and where the light
sneaks its way
through the foliage
and sets the river alight.
It’s a Christmas candlelight vigil,
if only the stubborn
forty-niner would turn around
and breathe it all in.

Everything I touch
turns to bronze.

And when I can
mine and pan no more,
I’ll curl up and drown
in my river of bronze.
And that angle of light,
that certain angle,
will be forever left

unseen.

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