the monster's not
in the wood shed
or under the bed:
it's in our heads,
critiquing the world
and judging ourselves,
always on the look-out
for ways to get ahead
the monster's not
in the closet:
it's in the bank
with the blood deposits,
in the criminal
and in the cop,
the million dollar car
with the robotic drop top,
boozy in a mini-skirt
at the swinging hot-spot,
at home with the kids
in cans of pop
it's the T.V. preacher
and the gestapo teacher,
drinking the silicon blood of modernity,
draped in robes of diverse orthodoxy
baring its seductive fangs at us
from within ourselves
