To retain your power,
drop the “I,” said somebody
dead, whose wife probably
typed his manuscripts. She might
have been a tree, a shooting star,
otherworldly spirit in a housedress,
maybe was. We’ll never know—
nobody took dictation for her shit.
So w(e)ary of the phrase “the industry.”
I, I, I, I, the angel speaks herself,
in a gay fantasia on national themes,
her light dimmed that it might be visible
to lesser “I”s. Don't tell me not to be
an “I.” Be what, somehow-imposing
conduit for info passed direct
to consumer? I, I, I, I am not.
There is only one “I” in “sin-eater.”
And only one wrong way to eat a Reese’s
(NSFW). Slogan, “I”less dialect
of business; the boys’ club learns withholding
(their “I”s, much information) between power-
stances at some seminar. With each dropped “I,”
the glass coffin ascends, unburdened
of a viewpoint. Sacred invocations
for the ages: “yes.” “confirm receipt.”
“under consideration.” “at this time.”
