17 April 2005
Page by page, the calendar keeps turning.
You don't want to be a bum, so you work,
buy expensive automobiles,
and mow your lawn. TV is your best friend.
Crabgrass and grubs torture your pride,
at night mosquitoes bring disease.
Resurrection: it's your cocoon
and you have to live in it every day.
You dress up appropriately,
always on time, prepared to work.
You've sold the best hours of the day
and the buyer wants his return
and you're gonna give it to him.
One day goes by and then another.
Hair turns to gray, vision blurs.
Maybe you can retire to Florida
and social security
if you don't die first.
Of course they lie about material
conditions. What do you really think:
the moon is made of green cheese
global warming is just a joke,
Saddam Hussein flew the planes?
Nursery rhymes still make us feel better,
protected from the decaying leaves,
dirt, worms, and fear of endless loneliness.
What do they offer for your sacrifice?
The money is a fraction of your worth
and rarely enough to buy your freedom.
Distraction is the key.
Focus on the celebrities.
or focus on the president.
Look into the all seeing eye.
You are getting sleepy, sleepy, sleepy.
"Don't you worry 'bout a thing . . ."
It's a game of smoke and mirrors:
Harry Houdini at his best.
Illusions have become real.
Rocky Balboa was the greatest of all time.
Rambo won the Vietnam War.
You know what I'm saying?
Understand, you are being played.
Somebody is ringing a bell.
The folks on the assembly line
may not be celebrities
but try driving without a car.
The farmers who grow the food;
the doctors and nurses who heal the sick;
the artists who heal the soul,
are the genuine heroes among us.
Just because Stalin was a devil
does not mean Marx was wrong
when he decried exploitation,
the way a handful of lazy bums
live on the labor of the masses
and spin lies as justification.
Under the blue skies of a summer day,
listening to the crack of baseball bats,
sunlight and shadows over center field,
check out that kid sliding in for the steal,
it's the baseball players who make the game
because George Steinbrenner
cannot hit or pitch worth a damn.
© 2005, Satya J. Gabriel