The powerful hoard power, and
the influential wield influence.
Things oscillate but mostly stay the same.
Actually, for most of us,
things just get worse.
The American Dream
is a myth, a lie
whispered in back rooms
and murmured
at garden parties.
Where these gardens are situated,
I do not know.
I have little power, and I
wield little influence.
The only keys I possess
are in my bones,
and I don’t think I could
headbutt a door open.
Nor could I pick a lock;
I’ve had no time or energy
to learn such delicate skills.
All my days
are tally marks barely adding up
to cover rent.
Tasty food is a luxury.
Every game is too much,
and every book
is a gift to myself.
I’ve already beaten this horse into a stupor.
If we get enough of us together,
and wrench bricks from the bottom,
do you think we could
topple these fucking pyramids?
I want to see them
laid to rubble,
for their bubbles of rich waste
to be exposed.
No more hiding;
come into the light,
you gross fat cats.
Your bones shall make fine chairs
for all of my friends.