Don't worry that I'm ignoring you
I ignore everyone

Don't worry that I didn't buy you a sandwich
I'm tight, that's all

Don't worry that I don't know your name when I see you every day
I'm the same with my neighbour

Don't worry that you don't go home when I do
My boss often stays late too

But then she does go home to her warm, dry bed
And your damp, cold begging spot welcomes your head
Ready for another day to be reminded that
You're less than human
When surely that title belongs to the one
Who avoided and ignored
Hoarded and stored

Surely that title belongs to me
Just like everything else

But don't worry

Is it better to get more money? Let’s say that it is.
It is better to get more money.

Is it better – for the poor – if everyone gets more money, even if that increases inequality?
Well.
The right – who think they are Right – say:

Yes. Disproportionately rewarding the wealthy with wealth creates wealth and quality of life, which the poor can now afford.

The left – who think they are Right – say:

No. Disproportionately rewarding the wealthy with wealth creates wealth and quality of life, which only the wealthy can afford.

So who is Right?
Well.
Let’s answer that question with two more questions:

What does “quality of life” mean?
Is it better to get more money?

They said they had to **** my dreams
because I didn't have enough zeroes.
In other words, Mr. Doe, you were
                     lied to by your heroes;
money isn't everything,
but not having it is being invisible.
You can work sixty hour weeks,
but only earn ways to be miserable.

My parents paying four-fifty, monthly
-- which is not a lot of money; we had
to eat out of cans and delude ourselves
into thinking it was funny. Sorry, Does;
                              sorry for your woes --
but America is the big hunter, and your
                            death is how it grows.

We were not equal; no account because
                   we had no account. Asked by
our family members if we bought junk
                      in a large amount. I'm sorry
to disappoint myself -- but I
                                         cannot afford
                                                   to lose.
I am the result of a flawed America
                                     that has learned
                                                to abuse.

the red light
stops me.

you are always there;
with your arms
full of flowers.

your flowers travel
in the passenger car seat
to the arms of a lover,
to the table of a hospital,
to the planks of a stage,
to a sanctuary.

and I wonder
if someone,
ever,
gave you flowers;
and if you ever
wanted
to be that lover,
or that patient,
or that actress,
or that saint.

I wonder
where you dreamed being at
when you were 10 years old.

¿what circumstances
ripped you off that dream
and put you over this
badly paved avenue?

the green light
illuminate us
again.

Typical male banter of which you think you are exempt-  but you are not.

Like the chick on the couch who plays the dumb blond, you are part of the culture.

Like an unnoticed concussion, you stain our brains with blackened thoughts of ideal bodies and insecurities.

You reek of stale laughter and wasted physique as you try to preserve your **** strap membership card with failing qualifications.

Since your hot wives have stretch marks and wrinkles around their forced smiles you play your fantasy league ; padding your stats with disingenuous gestures of matrimony.

With a stiff spine, we humor your talents the way your mother did- her icy tailbone under Friday night lights and forgiving disposition for missed curfews.
  
You draw from those years like a cactus in the rainforest.
  - soft soil - lacking roots and obviously out of place.

From above- you are an anomaly among the vines, masking your Cialis induced shaft by standing among real wood.

I hope you get cut down soon, all of you - turned into something better - like paper or a changing table for the sons we will raise to be disqualified from your clubs.

I was held hostage
By a white man in uniform
Wasn't a policeman, private security
He wore his gun on his belt, seemed nice
Approaches me in the night
Approaches me who is minding my own
He's talking to me, but I have no where to go
I can't run, I can't leave, I'm stuck
He's talking to me, about life
Talking about how he hates paying taxes
Talking about how he works for his own
His words are acid, an ignorant eruption
I have to bare this, I can't risk it
I do not dare. I do not dare risk it.
To tell this man to leave, this white man
With a gun, in uniform, patroling
Maintaining the peace.
My heart is racing, I want to escape
But I'm his hostage, socially bound
To the mercy of this white man and his gun.

The fires have razed the city
Pitchforks, picketers and angry mobs
Marching through rubble, the dust hasn't settled

The whispers ask so many questions
How? Why? What?
But this storm is done talking.
They shouted from the bottoms of hell
They shouted as every ear turned deaf
Words of peace, words of want, words of need
This fiery inferno is words of the unheard
The violent night of the voiceless has begun

The fires have razed the city
Pitchforks, picketers and angry mobs
Marching through rubble, the dust hasn't settled

Happiness
Measured from cheek to cheek
One end of my crooked smile to the other
A boisterous intoxicating laugh
A contagious obnoxious laugh
Measured, until it fades away

No laughing these days
No rosey red cheeks
No holding back

Happiness has been crumbled up
Thrown away, tossed aside, spit on
Grinded up, thrown in the muck,
Forgotten, abused, and abandoned

Anger. Honesty. Ambition.

Here they come with the swell
Casting themselves in dangerous waters
The only refuge for the drowning sea of faces

Sadness.
Measured from week to week
One end human suffering to the other
A vicious monopoly of hate
A sickening wildfire of inequality
Measured, until the end of days.

I dreamed I stood upon a little hill,
And at my feet there lay a ground, that seemed
Like a waste garden, flowering at its will
With buds and blossoms. There were pools that dreamed
Black and unruffled; there were white lilies
A few, and crocuses, and violets
Purple or pale, snake-like fritillaries
Scarce seen for the rank grass, and through green nets
Blue eyes of shy peryenche winked in the sun.
And there were curious flowers, before unknown,
Flowers that were stained with moonlight, or with shades
Of Nature's wilful moods; and here a one
That had drunk in the transitory tone
Of one brief moment in a sunset; blades
Of grass that in an hundred springs had been
Slowly but exquisitely nurtured by the stars,
And watered with the scented dew long cupped
In lilies, that for rays of sun had seen
Only God's glory, for never a sunrise mars
The luminous air of Heaven. Beyond, abrupt,
A grey stone wall, o'ergrown with velvet moss
Uprose; and gazing I stood long, all mazed
To see a place so strange, so sweet, so fair.
And as I stood and marvelled, lo! across
The garden came a youth; one hand he raised
To shield him from the sun, his wind-tossed hair
Was twined with flowers, and in his hand he bore
A purple bunch of bursting grapes, his eyes
Were clear as crystal, naked all was he,
White as the snow on pathless mountains frore,
Red were his lips as red wine-spilith that dyes
A marble floor, his brow chalcedony.
And he came near me, with his lips uncurled
And kind, and caught my hand and kissed my mouth,
And gave me grapes to eat, and said, 'Sweet friend,
Come I will show thee shadows of the world
And images of life. See from the South
Comes the pale pageant that hath never an end.'
And lo! within the garden of my dream
I saw two walking on a shining plain
Of golden light. The one did joyous seem
And fair and blooming, and a sweet refrain
Came from his lips; he sang of pretty maids
And joyous love of comely girl and boy,
His eyes were bright, and 'mid the dancing blades
Of golden grass his feet did trip for joy;
And in his hand he held an ivory lute
With strings of gold that were as maidens' hair,
And sang with voice as tuneful as a flute,
And round his neck three chains of roses were.
But he that was his comrade walked aside;
He was full sad and sweet, and his large eyes
Were strange with wondrous brightness, staring wide
With gazing; and he sighed with many sighs
That moved me, and his cheeks were wan and white
Like pallid lilies, and his lips were red
Like poppies, and his hands he clenched tight,
And yet again unclenched, and his head
Was wreathed with moon-flowers pale as lips of death.
A purple robe he wore, o'erwrought in gold
With the device of a great snake, whose breath
Was fiery flame: which when I did behold
I fell a-weeping, and I cried, 'Sweet youth,
Tell me why, sad and sighing, thou dost rove
These pleasant realms? I pray thee speak me sooth
What is thy name?' He said, 'My name is Love.'
Then straight the first did turn himself to me
And cried, 'He lieth, for his name is Shame,
But I am Love, and I was wont to be
Alone in this fair garden, till he came
Unasked by night; I am true Love, I fill
The hearts of boy and girl with mutual flame.'
Then sighing, said the other, 'Have thy will,
I am the Love that dare not speak its name.'