If you want to
Be part of our
Thing then you
Will absolutely
Submit to any
Rule we impose,
Gut anything we
Say you should,
Cut everything
We tell you to.
It’s for your
Own good,
We know best,
Our fiscal philosophy
Has shown
Time after time
How good
It is at destroying
Entire nations.
It’s reported that
The whole race thing
Is really not much of
A concern, bordering on
An afterthought for many,
Easily dismissed,
Of no real consequence,
A very different view
From having epithets
Shouted at you or being
A permanent suspect,
Second-class something,
Berated, harassed,
Handcuffed, maced,
Clubbed, shot for
Being exactly as
You were born.
Startled and enraged
By the light of progress,
They scurry out from
Their hiding places to
Shriek for their right
To hate, impose their
Distorted dreams of
Inequality and fear.
Artifacts from a
Shameful past,
Idealizing the
Trespasses of their
Forebears, standing up
For malevolence,
A ghastly stain,
Total absence of
Compassion, love.
Emily sits at the
Kitchen table unaware
That, nearby, people
Loathe her because of
Something she can’t
Do anything about.
Mom and Dad are getting
Ready for work,
Earning anemic wages at
Companies designed to keep
Them exactly where
They are in perpetuity.
It’s always been this way,
Toiling for nothing,
An honest day’s
Work unrecognized,
A treadmill they can’t
Avoid or escape.
He makes an offhand
Remark about someone’s race,
Not giving it much thought
And well in keeping with
The rest of his consistently
Intolerant outlook on many
Things, punctuated by a
Self-serving qualification
About how he accepts all people,
And how he’s so moderate,
Civilized, enlightened,
Completely unaware that
The only difference between
Him and the monsters
Is a matter of degree.
Tell me about how
That symbol doesn’t
Mean the subjugation
By force of an entire
People, how it has
Nothing to do with
Base, ugly instincts,
A miserable lust to
Break another human being
In order to enrich oneself,
To stand atop the
Inert carcass of an
Animal freshly slain,
To compensate for a
Festering inadequacy.
A stupefying world of
Tepid vanilla,
Drones marching in
Unison to the call of
Conformity, each one
The same as the last,
Quick-drying cement
Encasing creativity,
Voices muffled,
Flowers trampled.
When all the
Money in the country
Goes to a very small
Group at the very top,
That leaves very little
To no resources for
Anyone else, because,
You know, just a few
People have all the
Money, sort of like in
The old game where
Someone would buy all
The properties and
Watch everyone pay rent
And slowly crumble,
Though none of this
Means much to Emily,
Playing on a filthy
Motel balcony.
The slightest shift in tenor
Presages the impending
Barrage of vitriol and virulence
Spewed upon all in the vicinity.
Unblinking, staring at their
Immaculate shoes, the guests pretend
Nothing out of the ordinary
Is happening, not here.
Carefully selected finery,
Arranged extravagant display,
A mesmerizing feast for
Some other time and place.
