(for Plouton Eubulius)

Do what you have to. Fasten the gaskets and
suck through the tubes 'til you move through the vacuum.
Track out the backwash. Cap what you can't mix.
Axe what you tried but you can't fix: factory business.
Dismiss everything. Edit all featherweight medicine.
Poets have naught but to disturb festering edifice.

Challenge the profit and coffers and balance
the talent and auspice with action and office.
Don't just promise. Pledge and deliver all lofty
Get what you want if you act up and ask for it often.
Shore up and shoulder the portage. Cut off the
cord from the cortege. Float through the ether and orbit.

Lose what you have to. Downgrade.
Giant gas mass ain't safe from redaction in deep space.
Face that you'll rue Fate. Pace with a scalpel.
Grief is a ghost in the speech as you mull every mouthful.
Haul off and upend the gurney and gradually
advance the ranks through the tiers of the tourney.

Huff the jet fuel. Flirt with permanence.
Stoke the casks to explode through the cracks in the firmament.
And when, at last, you've the callus to hazard the
backlash, gather the last few rations, stand up
strapped in that spacecraft cabin, and blast off launch pads,
cast in that pitch black cavern.

Do what you have to. Pack in. Suit em up.
Lay it out gracious: "Thank you. Time's up, motherfuckers."
Sever all life-lines. Pipe through the white light.
Get it on. Tell it all. Tell 'em off. Tell 'em all: Shit, I'm on...
Cloud nine. Cloud nine. Cloud nine. Cloud nine.