Twenty Minutes for Nonsense, a Benison

People can always be made
By other people like them

To confess themselves freely
In twenty minutes or less.

We savor, Orwellian
Each one, this hypocrisy,

This glibness, this daft, dab hand
At cruelty among us.

We ask, for too high a price
(Because we ourselves pay it),

An innocence premium.
Enough with the innocence.

Enough, I guess, with the rest.
We build our markets of bones

Upon the middens of wolves,
Of gods, of angels, ourselves.

What is most amazing, crazed
As may be, in the deep end

Of the shallow pool of "Man,"
Is that we have some presence

Within our nonsense, the gift
For nonsense, a benison.