The Ghost of Futures Traded
The going rate for a bushel of debt, plus commission. The shareholders’ souls expressed in missile silos filled with corn smut. The snake oil salesman promises you a light that never goes out, picks your pockets to the stitches, leaves you snow-blind & steaming toward the horizon. The gap enthusiasm alone cannot carry you over, not cartoon enough to survive the whistle & fall. The canyon not as deep as his canvasing wants you to believe. The fear of falling half the damage & most of the collateral. The mercurial bubble you imagine surrounds you walking off the ledge will not silver your surfing, won’t float you over the gap.