They raised him right in the skinny box muted and seen,

Attacks that embalmed his sacred heart, bleating and bled,

Double Dutch lines rule his life in the living machine,

Entombed within calvinized steel is as good as dead.

Pure hues, black and white, no shades of grey to tempt the monk.

Chacmool slouches toward chambers too rigid to be born.

Inside clean and true grids trespassed by the hunkypunk,

The curse of the blest yellow maiden he bears alone.

A man who dwells in glass houses can’t hide from his fate.

His stress tests the wall but it moves no more than before.

He looks up from his carcass at silent birds who wait.

Perhaps redemption came knocking but could find no door.

He clicks his remote control, does not renunciate

Doctor, an angel, kneels and does not resuscitate.