Cut the parachute off the moon

If you were a kind person you would cut the parachute off the moon,
all possibilities, and details of duty, coalescing greed with the overtime
of dirt and hand braided bags left out for timid engineers on a totalitarian’s
salary in defense of cooper mines gambled away last Tuesday. Your filter
is your oscillating fixture unimpressed with the curtains you have ironed.

We lost the root ingredients for oxygen somewhere between the birth canal
and the grave all the while purchasing gasoline for our mini-jets and bark
burning thruster-packs. In rooms where even the booze is unattended to,
the light bends for favors from a forgetful god like a storm in the passage
that belifts towards mercy and caravans onto Monday like fires awaiting.

A nation that’s greed demands that the disabled must pay their own way
is unsustainable towards the evening drive to heaven that you count as your
excuse for one-man freight-shows where most of the story is never told.
There will come a day when the cursed servants of greed will not benefit
from their seared consciences, instead only coins to purchase a boat across.