Inscrutable witness from Central America, are you, as Genesis claims, born like us
from a clay womb? Do your lapped arms portray an astral, mythical father? Do you keep Akashic records of our acts and rejected choices, along with the holographic/protocosmic surround of numberless galaxies? Unite our star-spangled human clay into an unwilling indigenous worldwide kin? Would Wall Street gamblers, fat from the sham miracle
of compounding interest, be our brothers? Even this one—a dashing bi-sexual executive
on the Street, who presented this human spider dream, after his gay officemate/playmate
/hire impugned his authority.

Our visitor—‘millionaire
maker’ to his colleagues—
dreamed: Buck naked, I’m
hanging like a spider sixty feet
up, from a ceiling corner
of a grand ballroom, fingers
splayed at a 90-degree angle.
My boyfriend stares up at me
from across the empty hall,
as a pack of Dobermans spews
snarling out of my rectum toward
him cringing on the parquet floor. . .

Olmec or not, clay one, would you
unlock this wall street warrior’s
dream by telling him your Jai Alai
captain’s story? Instead of war,
two ancient kings decided to play
a winner-takes-all game. Victory,
carved on the Mexican court’s wall,
let the winner rule both kingdoms.
After the popul vuh parade, the head
of the captain was lopped off—prelude
to cavorting with heavenly virgins. . .
Compounding interest earned a king’s
ransom for the Street’s top dog
and playmate, but greed—like a pack
of hounds— rains down on them both.