Picture a certain banker's house and its crawl space,
then imagine a circumstance in which he has to crawl.
If you want to take part, imagine rats' nests
and a leaking pipe, and all the plumbers in the world
tired of shit, not answering their phones. For I have
come to my banker's house, already having unscrewed
what down below was screwed tight. I've rung his bell,
and have been made to wait in the garden
and take off my shoes. Time used to be money.
Now it's an invisible hand slapping you in the face.
He has told me, in so many words, my kind
of industriousness is cancelled by his kind of dream.
He wrote a letter explaining this, the fall-out
from the windfall, the gobble and the gobbledegook,
and four or five reasons why all necessity is his.
If you want to take part, picture plush carpets
in his favorite room and sets of antlers mounted
next to portraits of his father and himself. Know
you are only a few decimal points from being me.
The waste in that pipe, his very own waste, well,
you might say I've liberated it, let it out.
My plan is to be sitting in his chair when he returns
from where he'll have found himself knee-deep.
If you want to be part of this, perhaps bring a friend.
I'll meet you in the garden where I wait without shoes.
Who knows what we'll do when his room is ours.