Because the moment when you realize
life is measured in network television
and the only thing stringing us together
is faith, standing steadfast on the edge
of the Grand Canyon, summoning seraphim
with a split decision, a blink—
conviction is a sentence and a miracle.

We are subjects vying for an object,
medicated by advertising,
advertising for medication,
until the sun no longer rises.

Please, don’t let me be one of them,
not hungry or starving or dead,
begging with my bank account,
asserting my existence with consumption,
while this din is raging silently,
a fever pitch for the dogs, a chorus
repeating, “money can’t buy me love.”