Dare the dainty
All in eaves, a dance of we've
Sour regards for a knowing heed, the eclectic key
Wavering in the air, to tell a story of finality

Salt, dust and whatever else
Rhymes with damnation, the tows of veracity
Become like lucky butterflies, the solution in bells
To worth and occur, with a certain mighty...

Sounds of music, to die for
Through the hollow of sunshine we find so warm
The completion of a single thought for avidity, so sore
Has the curiosity of chances, and the decency, only more

Should we shoulder a pathetic distance, from the nerve?
Or is causes guidance, to a realm of liberty ensconced
We woke, and walked to the notion adding, a due friend
With seasons of come, to light the way to sits, of around...

About now
The tale has become ours for a looking have, and the moment gave
Mirrors, seldom fears and a host to what nears
The romance of aptness, for a circle of deem, that has it to save...

You sit there
In that big chair
Leaning forward in false interest.
With Affluence.
Where do the thoughts go?
Away in a box of unsent letters?
Why are there so many letters?
Like an unknown alphabet.
An exotic language,
too hard to interpret.
So much time spent to decipher,
That by the time you do,
The letters lost their meaning,
Lost in translation.

Forever.

These politicians aren't even people,
They're machines fueled by money,
Whose conquests relentlessly propel humanity,
Ever nearer to the brink of its demise,
While a lucky few at the very top
Rake in unfathomable fortunes, and
Consolidate their power at the expense
Of those common men and women,
Who strive only to build themselves
Honest and virtuous lives.

We are always told
That crime doesn't pay, but
On an unbiased inspection of
The world to which these forces
Have given birth, it becomes
More and more apparent
With each passing day,
That not only does crime pay,

But that it is the linchpin,
The essence and Truth; held in
The very highest esteem, and
The foundation, upon which,
Every structure of influence,
Constituting this wretched culture
In whose shadow we all stand,
Is built, and gains stability, but
Which crime pays? For whom?
And for what reasons?

Crash the economy through manipulation and deceit,
Get million dollar bonuses, and taxpayer bailouts.
Because your wealth is of prestige, and
You are the herald of progress,
Not to mention the fact that you
Own the judges and regulators, and
Your bank account is big enough
To bribe anyone you please, but

Resort to theft because,
Your family is hungry,
You go to jail or prison, and
Become a source of cheap labor,
To build products for the same ones
Whose greed crashed the economy,  
In the first place.

Then, when you get out;
You can be sure that the court costs
And legal fees will drive
You even deeper into debt, and
Compel you to offend again, but
It's not systemic; it's your fault
Because the poor are the wretched of the earth,
Who have earned their misfortune,
By means of their own iniquity, and
Thus undeserving of sympathy.

Meanwhile, from birth to death
From womb to tomb, and
From cradle to grave
The narrative is spoon fed, to
Every man, woman and child,
That hard work and
Honest aspiration,
Are the keys to success;
Study hard,
Get good grades,
Follow the rules,
Give it your all, and
Prosperity will become
Your dearest friend.

Yet, John Q. Public
Works for 40 years,
While Congress loots
His social security and pension, and 
Is ultimately  forced to choose between  
Buying this month's medicine, or
Paying this month's rent, once
He finally does retire

Sarah C. Student,
Follows the same path,
Only to live for subsequent decades
In the desert of a new serfdom,
Born of the iron will of finance capital,
Ending with little but a sense of
Betrayal and resentment
To show for all her efforts.

But on the flipside, just across town
Uncle Moneybags is tormented
By his painful choice between
A private jet, or new yacht, and
The prince of Crude Oil-istan,
Frets over which jewels will
Encrust the statue of his likeness,
Neither of them ever having
So much as broken a sweat
In the service of labor,

Now, tell me how it's sane that
We all take this for granted?
Perhaps the specter of democracy
Has led us down a blind alley, of
Illusory choice, counterpoised
Against the despotism of the past, but

Dig a bit deeper and it becomes obvious,
That one tyranny has merely replaced another
In the grander scheme, and so now,
Every 4 years, we march gallantly
To the polls and cast our ballots to vote
On whether we want to die of AIDS,
Or maybe cancer, instead; all while
Pundits stand at their podiums,
Regurgitating the same old worn out,
Platitudes hailing the triumph, of
Our serene and beneficent system, but
  
I wish someone could tell me,
Plainly and honestly:
When the 62 richest own as much
As the 3 billion poorest
Where does it stop?
What is the limit?
How much longer can it continue?
When do we finally decide
That enough is enough?

We spend our lives in pursuit of what we lack
So much time wasted when we look back
On the years we paved roads
And paid what we owe
And what have we gained but old age?

We waved our troubles away
And ignored how our bodies decayed
Until caught in the ragged net of time
Unable to finish the climb
For the mountain of satisfaction can never be conquered.

Unaware of what wasn't to come
Like dogs, we now beg for a scrap, or a crumb
Of the happiness we sought in all the wrong places
Until we are rescued by God's saving graces
And fall from one void into the next.

Affluence creates
distorted dissatisfaction.
It makes morons want
to be the Kardashians.
It makes kind people
ignore the world's misery.
It makes unkind people
arrogant and pig headed.
It crowds out those
who are really important to you.
Eventually, it becomes who you are
and then you are no one at all.
All that's left is your stuff and you.

  ~mce

Bricks and mortar, steel and boards,
Phone poles lined with power cords, on
Pothole streets, where engines roar,
'Neath smoggy skies, where jet planes soar,

Where penny merchants peddle wares,
And news reports pretend they care,
Where vagrants sleep, and children stare,
And people work for lives not theirs,

That's life in the jungle, adrift in the herd,
Where terrestrial beasts envy free flying  birds
Where the pundits stand polished, and speak empty words,
And the artists paint portraits, while posted on curbs,

Where the men push carts, full of empty cans,
And the women spend paychecks, for spray-on tans,
Where the truckers drive loads, 'cross a thousand mile span,
To appease the great gods of supply and demand,

Asphalt and tarmac, girders and glass,  
Terrarium trees in cemented sod grass,
Ripe with the stench of exhaust fumes and gas,
As the choir lines up for the 10 o'clock mass,

While the brokers all scream, at a packed stock exchange,
As the veterans in wheelchairs sit begging for change,
That's life in the jungle, it's just a big game,
But remember you're playing, lest you go insane.