My Trespass Mode

Know you are not my weathervane my compass, my guide, my patriarch.

Obligations have left the spreadsheet of my dreams and now they talk back,

in fact they yell with all their voice come to daylight Jesus, my trespass mode 

coming unglued true. I buy in, I keep listening with both prisms 

of personality stripped of your faux licensure, your unsure wobble

of karma there to bite you back for all of your prissy pinnacle 

behavior, repetitious and self-inflating, deigning to embrace 

those you perceive to be inferiors who will bow to you, versus

contradict your pronouncements like wasted radio un-news, streaming

sans contrition your mission of clutching the rotted stick of power

made to look benevolent in all of our best interests, keeping 

you at the helm as you dodder in frail cranial abuse within

striking distance, with disapproval, dismissiveness, and disrespect 

to deflect the heft of rough hairy stems of sunflowers uplifting.