Jobless, a poor man’s made
bed of death. How to care for children
during a time of dire duress, Confess to
the sin of infidelity. Stop searching for
a miracle the probability that you’ll find
security.
Emptied minds drained by a game
they’ve been dragged into, without an escape
route, the tunnel lengthens then darkens.
The soul is a passel of creative conjunction,
malfunctioning on the principles of spirituality,
by demanding man can find the end to our
suffering.
The purchasing power of millions
is still immersing us in poverty. Unemployment
skyrockets while the pockets of political heretics
is lined with the golden touch of King Midas.
War torn streets adorn our democracy in the
fantasy of possible prosperity. Found among
the rotting intestines of young children, and
here at home the homeless begin seething for a way
to feed their screaming belly, wrenching them in
pain, just more lowly pawns for them to play
their financing game.
Skinned to the bone I pick up the
phone, and fiber optics enter me with
informative defamating poverty, from a world
ready and waiting for the pigs purging. A plate
of hot food, served under tarps sheltering
unwashed heads from the acidic rain burning
holes into the makeshift homes of a new death
row. This is all futuristic prospects, not inspected,
because we have faith that our government
isn’t infected just a bit stagnant.
Then reality strikes us down. We elected
not for this predicament, but the promise of
each man to have a chance
at providing for the hungry screaming mouths
he encounters once he opens his door, for
they’ve bitten off their own tongues, to supplement
for nourishment. The welfare plan has abandoned
them and the national surplus dwindles, while
the swindlers, the number punchers go unpunished.
I suppose France had it right the first time;
an aristocracy is one willing to bite off its nose
to spite its face, while its endearing citizens die
starving; when they’re the ones farming the
fields their dead ancestors are now nourishing.