Who Let You Go?

All the people are getting familiar with my
panic button because they are revved up on
capitalism. A battering ram at my door like on a cop show,
with theatrical urgency, because they know they're being filmed.
I don't want to wake up to that, ever. It's good to mention
what you feel too but what about my door? It's fucked.
An eagle on a nature show eats some fungi
and mistakes himself for a fist with wings
(he flies pretty good for a sick eagle though).
Oh, for the days of simply whistling while I floated
down a river with my ass planted in an inner tube.
Oh, to never again frisk a litigant, or sell something
to someone I don't even know. I'm trying to be fabulous
all the time. I've ordered some super special diamond dice
from the internets that are just for licking, you. Of
wetness and the bridge of your nose, of workers
knocking things over, of dreams that show
no signs of beginning. Oh, who let you go?