Jim Redmond



All Rulings Are Final Rulings

I was king for a day. 


I felt like a glass box 

with exactly $3 inside, 


like I showed up to the water shortage 

with two 10-gallon toilets; 


a kind of publicity stunt 


that can’t be undone: 

the latest public housing expo. 


I was given a gold chain to wear 

I couldn’t see past: 


a flimsy quintessence; 


the body of Christ dangled 

in front of a motorcade like a carrot; 


a self-portrait the size of a howitzer 

I was told to preside over, 

to garner distrust.

Even the royal self was subject. 


I spit proclamations 

like sunflower seeds 

courtside at Caesar’s Palace; 


commissioned an airport terminal 

from my head to my heart, 



a Slip ‘n Slide from my ear 

to my tongue. 


All of my thumbs-down 

were final, my thumbs-up 

less certain. 


The people said I needed 

to conquer something substantial. 


I decided to conquer the trends. 


Everything I touched 

turned to Auto-Tune.