Crocodile, Dinero

For all the monks who have ceased to be
in this unordinary life, I count
the funky, the solicitious generals
of commerce who make their cash upon
the trash of others--out here where the wind
comes crashing in gales, in tornadoes
when spring cracks open, these men
who want my cash will only cry when crisis

bends back their ribs to find burnt hearts
clashing with the saints--that money taints
the life of others is no joke. They poke
and poke the empty masses who are cajoled
only when they can imagine themselves
healthy at the bank, wiping their fingers dry.