He sits on his comfortable couch
In his comfortable house
Comfortably talking about
How uncomfortable it makes him
When one of those homeless
Lowlifes walks down his street
And how he’s going to
Do something about it someday.
The only reality he’s
Ever known is wealth and
Privilege (and the
Narrative concocted by
His family to make it
Seem like all their
Good fortune happened
Through determined toil
Rather than by some
Relative many years ago
Who happened to be at
A favorable place at an
Advantageous time and who
Never let it be forgotten
That it was his superior
Mettle and exertion that
Made the whole thing possible,
Not the bit about
Taking advantage of others
For personal gain),
Which makes it really easy
For him to denigrate those
Who have far less than him.
Stately columns adorning
A shaded portico,
Stately oaks lining
A shaded lane,
Lush, sultry greenery,
Small decrepit cabins nearby,
Inhabited by enslaved human beings
Whose toil builds ever-larger
Mansions where rulers
Live off the forced labor
Of others who have no choice
But to hope for a better day.
It’s all smiles and
Warmth until he decides
That the prevailing
Beliefs are not his
Cup of tea, that’s when
A side he’s never seen
Before rears it’s head,
A writhing creature
Bristling with
Reproach and suspicion
At the prospect of
Someone not toeing the line,
Forcing them to reflect
On who they really are.
He fancies himself a
Person of above-average
Intellect, a distinction
Which allows him to make
Pronouncements about all
Kinds of thorny topics
About which he has little or
No expertise, except in
His own mind, building a
Rather robust echo chamber
Where the only thing that
Matters is what he thinks and
No other point of view has
Any hope of getting in,
A complete divorce from any
Verifiable facts, which
Leads him to
Make decisions that
Deeply hurt others.
I can tell
As he’s talking that
He’s somewhere else.
I ask him about it
Without receiving
A clear answer.
Sometimes
Questions
Aren’t welcome.
It was over when
He started spouting
Jarringly vituperative
Untruths and fabrications
As if they were
Empirical facts.
So strange to think
That there used to be
A bright intellect there,
Furtively usurped by
All-encompassing fear
And absence of love.
A moment when an ordinary
Human being can no longer
Contain the inconsistencies,
Succumbing to
Formerly hidden impulses
With feral abandon.
He fails to see
The blatant inconsistencies
In what he says he believes
And what he does,
A detail which is completely
Lost on him,
As is much of his life,
A swirling mess of
Contradictions and dissonance,
Unreconciled,
Unwhole,
Unpleasant.
In the middle of
All the noise,
The fake kisses and
Fabricated mirth,
He asks himself
What it’s all about,
This superficial chaos
Punctuated by
Occasional meaning
Mostly ignored.
