Tag Archives: classism

Carnival

The trumpets blared a jovial tune,
deep from the recesses of nowhere,
fanfare mixed with a shower of ribbons,
drifting to the barren lands below.

Far off and away
a dried-well village awakens,
slowly rising to life,
like a mirage, unbelieving.

From there,
the distant sounds are ominous terror.

To avoid the cannons fire or the bombs that drop,
what life remained –
              beyond the drought,
                          the famine,
                          the plague;
hurries to flee the parade,
thieve its chance to trample what years they’ve saved.

They scavenge for food, water, and memories,
place them in bindles made of shirts and table cloth;
                          cast     themselves       out            into       the        sand…

               Before the great machine can raise their dying town
                                  with its terrible jubilation.

               Before the sun can cut them down,
                                    burning white like bleached bone.

               Before the scavengers can consume what’s left,
                                  to live their days bereft.

               While those awful trumpets play,
                                  ravaging the landscape with sound and fury.

Soliloquy

Canned corn on a steel plate,
        cooled a long time ago
        when the sun was still ripe
        and the chair was still on all fours.

Cigarette butts discarded on the stove
        crumpled like crash test dummies
        burned, brutalized and- left behind,
        are only the parts that keep you safe.

The ceiling fan is motionless above
        compensating at a tilt for the missing blade
        dead skin piled on like a snow drift
        nodding soberly in the gust from an open window.

A closed door with holes that fit like gloves
        hides the muffled sounds of lament
        from somewhere beyond desperation
        lost deep in the forest of defeat.

No one has time to finish their meal.
                      not like this
                      not like this
                      not like this

Stagehand

Found
on the ground, a rhythm in the dirt
like a cackling brook beneath the surface
the sound is nervous
confounding any sense of purpose.
Look around
[you];
while you are free most are bound
a town full of brown slacks
round spectacles
all shapes are there on stage,
but the spotlight is on the testicles
because there lies rationality
or so says the old spectacle;
a fashion of resounding sterility.
Anonymity the greatest renown
or so says the celebrity.
So what if it costs our identity?
foster instead gratitude
over an exhausting attitude,
those, “what-ifs” reeling always around the head.
That fish you wish you’d caught?
You’ve already fought before and tossed back.
It wasn’t about what it had
but what you lacked.
Now, you’re on the other side,
more mad than glad that bridge was crossed
yet always
still
lost.

Citizens United

I wish I had enough
to budget for my vote
the cost of the ear
my representative
long since entombed in gold.

While we scrawl on paper
which evil is lesser
our betters tell us
that they are citizens
and they are united

behind something greater
than any we could wield,
as many zeros
trailing as for us lay
ahead, there to impede;

for though voting is free
positions cost money
and it behooves them
to give money power
while we still reward greed.

We too are citizens
but are not united,
we blame each other
for the lack of funding
we would need to contend

but if I could afford
to bend the golden ear,
I’d cry out in pain,
give voice to our freedoms
dying in avarice.

Peasants

Deceived into concessions
for a world that was broken
the fractured found aggression
beyond what could be spoken

Fruit cannot be harvested
when salt has been sewn within
no water was invested
no chance for seeds to begin

To gain the growth required
they rose against the farmer
amongst themselves conspired
without arms, without armor

Thus the world was disrupted
and much needed change achieved
the people once corrupted
would no longer be deceived

The Bees Knees

With life this good what could remain of our pursuits
All the pretty things one would want are in our reach
all the dreams we had persist while we are awake
we but need to reach up and harvest those sweet fruits
and be given all we ask – no need to beseech
for it has been ordained this is all for our sake.

We need but define those luxuries we desire
and watch them take form in the hands of those who serve
for tasks are sure to be provided to us each
and we must be the beacon to which they aspire;
all get what they deserve.

Though should you find your destiny in jeopardy
do not agonize on thoughts that make us older
your place remains as always one of dominion
that place where the lesser people shall never be
for someone must always be pushing the boulder
to bring life to our valuable opinions.

Find the nearest sturdy back on which to crawl
to carry you to the other end of your dreams
for the world has put you there on their shoulders
and given those below endless reasons to fall
lest all this burst at the seams.