The Factory of Lights

In fall, Rome burns colored
lights and dares not turn
its sights on the collective soul --
that which is
is streaming down the gutter,
fallen paper airplanes
litter classroom floors as
teachers spew brand name formulas
while steepled fingers tear
rough edges and
distinction limps
to the pinnacle of mental illness --

Inspiration birthed in
Ashlee Simpson's underpants,
this nation-state exists
to please pointy eyed men
of glass who lick the fat
off raw bones and belch
worms struggling to escape
the rotting flesh.

Pay me to decloth
and I will shimmer gracefully
on midnight computer screens
while a dapper citizenry strokes
fancied dreams that lead to
shriveled glories --
all that is
is bittersweet as praise to God
delights the feet but minds protest
and are dethroned from majesty
to little gnomes
inside the factory of lights
that gives Rome its majestic
delightful hallowed flare,
its racing bikes and burlesque
flights of weathered denizens
shivering on late season nights
aware of nothing but the fall.