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Worker’s Prayer

Kneel down at the corporate altar

pray for economic strength

record profits

a healthy stock market

wait for the riches to trickle down

Cry and scream

at the corporate wailing wall

beg manufactures not to leave

move factories to foreign lands

no no no

please don’t take away

high paying jobs and financial security

our carrot on a stick

that keeps us pushing forward

craving education

pushing us harder to achieve

comfort for our families

We will frequent your temples

five days a week, if given the opportunity

eight hours a day, more if you request

whatever it takes to ensure your success

try to be something greater

shed blood sweat and tears

sell our souls

sacrifice our lives

to serve your purpose

This blood stained altar erected just for you

we’ve adorned with tax abatements

loopholes

and off shore banks

so you can protect your wealth

met your demands

so we all might prosper

only to discover

that the only thing trickling down

is your shit

Broken Stars

 

Shards of stars glisten brightly in noonday sun

pieces of dreams strewn across an abandoned yard

pick each fragment up, turn them over in my hands

these broken dreams of broken men that never mend

careful not to cut the flesh, dispose of shards in a can

for I will not bleed another man’s regret

many lessons learned but none greater I have met

when the sun shines brightly, stars still shatter yet

and sometimes Illumination is a lie that must be told

because this house was condemned long ago

 

(from The Evolution of Disconnect)

The Poet

First published in The Evolution Of Disconnect:

 

In April of 2014 I had the great opportunity to have a few of my poems critiqued by a gracious and exceptional poet. She highlighted a few of my weaknesses and offered up some great advice to chew on. The focal point of our conversation narrowed down to the poem, Two Doors, about the conflict between the conscious and subconscious mind. In the poem there is a house divided by two doors. One side of the house is brilliantly lit while the other side remains in perpetual darkness. My poet/ tutor was not concerned with the lighted side of the house. She (and any potential reader) only cares about the mysteries hidden in the darkness. What she was conveying, essentially, was that I should stop glossing over facts and events and dig a little deeper for the story. I took her advice to heart and the following day wrote this poem.

 

THE POET

 

On a balcony overlooking a paradox

she offers and I take a seat

a teacher and a poet in a long black dress

shuffling pieces of me in her hands

 

Questions she asks

prodding with a smile

searching perhaps for something

she believes words can reconcile

 

Knowing I’m just another surface dweller

the poet scratches my soul

you’re going to need a shovel, she says

to get where you want to go

 

No one cares about objects shining brightly in a noonday sun

objects plainly seen by everyone

she asks about my house

why I only go into rooms where the light is on

 

Her penetrating words finger switches

and once darkened rooms reveal decaying corpses

chests inflating with the breath of recognition

mouths repeating lessons learned

 

Having trained the emotions through the years

how can I begin to describe what she wants to hear?

the look on my mother’s face, how can I forget?

that haunted expression she wore, when I told her what I knew

Scars

Another excerpt from The Evolution of Disconnect:

14.

Beaten and emotionally scarred by the years, most of us always manage to find a way to rise up and go back out into the world again. This is Life. It’s what humans do. There are others that may do it better, who don’t seem to fall as far when knocked down, who rebound from defeat quicker, but none of that matters. What’s important is that we do pick ourselves up to fight again. Life isn’t about the success and the failure. Life is all about the learning that comes from the trying. Many scars I have accumulated through the learning.

 

SCARS

Through the barbed thistles of life

I’ll run

thorns slicing through the flesh

I’ll run

feel the blood run down my limbs

I’ll run

run without regret

Out on the streets

bring me to my knees

where a cold north wind blows

I’ll rise up

put the wind and troubles to my back

and walk straight into the sun

Cut me with passion

pierce my soul with love

let me slip

watch me fall

and I’ll rise up

just to do it all over again

Love me

accuse me

break my heart in two

‘cause I don’t mind the scars

that come from knowing you

Scars is also about my relation with that unseen force that all physical things originate from. I don’t know what this force is or where it comes from but I do believe in its existence. A universe by design seems plausible to my primitive senses but I don’t know if this force created the universe or was embedded into the fabric of the universe at the time of creation. Or perhaps I’m only inserting a supernatural being into my rationalization at the point where my understanding of the universe ends. I honestly do not know. What I do know is that, like most poets, I’m a seeker searching for answers where others fear to look, inside their souls.