The devil is sitting at a table
make sure to provide top service,
and if you are somehow able,
hide that his aggression makes you nervous.
When the White House is just a smidge too white,
it might be time for us Canucks to pull a 1814.
How can someone do absolutely nothing right?
and think what will be a nightmare will help revive an American dream?

The devil is sitting at the desk,
and he’s got yes men to shine and kiss his shoes.
It was finally time for him to fail a test
but his misguided cultists refused to let him lose.
When the White House is just a smidge too white,
even if the occupant is known to be orange.
He’s shutting the gates just too tight,
rushing Capitol instead of tearing his door hinge.

The devil is sitting at a table
he’s got the finest cutlery set,
and the legs of it aren’t stable
with each wobble he places his next bet.
When the White House is just a smidge too white,
I think it needs to be stripped and gain a new coat.
Why is a symbol of oppression dressed up so bright,
when it’s walls protect one and strangle every other throat?

He “did everything right” and they indicted him;
and now we fight eachother when we should be fighting him.
These people have forgot how the world turns,
infact they believe it’s stationery and around them.
So they anticipate heat when they make the world burn,
and await a rose after they rooted and snapped each stem.

Isn’t it absolutely insane
how the free can unknowingly live in a prison?
Didn’t anyone tell you even a Hurricane
can’t cleanse American Capitalism?

people are capable of silence
in privacy
one's own thoughts
created from brilliance
in the darkness of peace
the mind at rest
whole and alone
out front of the sun
the illusion of an exit
her dent, and lust
to burn home into her mind
yet not all are acquainted
with ancient cycles
relenting reason, tusking the fools
the wrong way, an unjust intro,forcing time
and the phone call, the injustice
of buying the phone call out
to stay in your morbid prison
fascinated in front of the world
only the world of yourself, the jealousy and the hell

the men behind the curtains are pulling strings again,
their fingers slick with something thick, something oil-slick black,
something that drips between the cracks in the floorboards
and pools in the mouths of the hungry.

they speak in circles, in ribbons of smoke,
in promises spun from gold-dipped breath.
but when you hold them to the light,
the gold is flaking, peeling back,
revealing the bone-white rot beneath.

they build their cities on the backs of the drowning,
pour concrete over the open mouths,
pat the ground smooth,
call it progress.
they carve their names into marble and call it history,
but the statues still weep at night
when no one is looking.

in the streets, the people move like ghosts,
hollowed out, emptied, made small enough
to fit between the gaps in the system.
they kneel before screens that flicker like gods,
praying in silence to the ones who will never answer.
outside, the neon signs are bleeding,
electric veins pulsing against the sky,
a city built from glass and hunger,
always hungry, never full.

somewhere, a mother cradles a child
who will never grow up to own the air he breathes.
somewhere, a man counts coins that will never buy him tomorrow.
somewhere, a girl stitches up the holes in her pockets
only to find new ones tearing open in the seams.

the ocean is rising,
lapping at the edges of empire,
a quiet, patient animal waiting to take it all back.
the earth cracks open like an old wound,
swallows forests, swallows homes,
spits back the bones.
the rivers run thick with something dark,
something too toxic to name.
they tell us not to drink.
they tell us to be grateful.
they tell us the sky is still blue,
but when we look up,
all we see is smoke.

the men in suits raise their glasses,
laugh over the sound of collapsing ceilings,
shake hands with the same red fingers
that signed the death certificates.
they talk about the future in rooms too high
to hear the wailing below,
too far removed to taste the ash on their tongues.

and still, we wake.
and still, we walk.
we gather what is left,
wear our hunger like armor,
carry our sorrow like torches.
if the sky will not clear,
then let us be the fire
that burns it all down.

I am no king, yet here I stand,
A puppet bound by Baba’s hand.
He lifts me high, he pulls the strings,
He owns my fate, he crowns my wings.

He whispers soft, “The throne is yours,”
Yet locks my soul behind his doors.
With stolen gold, he paves my way,
My name, my face, the price he pays.

He calls me son, but brands my skin,
His mark runs deep, it burns within.
He buys my men, he bends the night,
He clears my path with blood and might.

His wealth runs thick, a poisoned stream,
A silent curse, a fractured dream.
I must win—no, he must reign,
The debt is his, the cost my chain.

Mark your votes and play your part,
Or watch him tear the world apart.
For if he falls, then flames will rise,
The streets will choke on shattered cries.

Two years his, then one for me,
One for you, but never free.
Four more come, the pact may change,
The balance shifts, the vows rearrange.

Take your crumbs, be still, be tame,
For baba must feast, his only aim.
It’s Babacracy, dark and deep,
I do not rule—I watch, I weep.

For if he turns, the storm will break,
And all I’ve built, the wind will take.
Your voices drown in hollow halls,
And I must bow when Baba calls.

It’s Babacracy—no light, no grace,
Just power’s hand upon my face.

Oh, your cries are weak, your strength too small,
So take what’s left, if left at all.
It’s Babacracy—I don't serve you,
My oath is sworn, my path untrue.

There's nothing to eat in the kitchen
of Charles Frank Watchman
born here in this town

and deceased last winter
We polish the worktop
made from his gravestone

There is not a scratch on it
The coffin in which he lay
have we traded for

nothing, bacon and beans
Times are changing
but inequality is not

no matter how many marches
we walk to the Great Golden
White, Pink, or Blue House

Look at you, you lost animal.
You tear down anything that has a chance of being good,
then sit in the shadow of what can only be bad,
and tell me the world worries you.

(It’s that vernal, infernal, tax season. How about a tax avoidance vignette? It’s poetic—in it’s own way)

Some students at a table near us in the dining hall were discussing America’s financial inequities. One guy was saying that we ought to “tax the crap” out of billionaires and their billions—and there was agreement all around—the consensus was downright mob-like.

I had to chuckle though, because these guys have no idea how wealth is managed in the world today. I bet, for instance, they think Musk has 200 billion dollars in his basement somewhere, but no, Musk’s 200 billion is his ‘net worth,’ the theoretical value of his stock portfolio (or his unrealized assets).

Just between us chickens, I’m related to a few ‘filthy rich’ people, (no, NOT my parents) and I’ve met many others and I can assure you, dear reader, that the ‘filthy rich’ have nothing you can tax. Now, I’m not a finance major. Everything I know, I learned from my Grandmère and my parents who thought a girl ought to know about money. So anyway, just for fun, here’s a quick (I’m condensing and simplifying), lesson on how taxation and wealth work in 2025.

The wealth of the rich lies in their assets—the value of companies they own or stocks they’ve invested in. Those “paper assets” can only be taxed when they’re sold—or, in tax terms, when their intrinsic value is “realized.”

Now instead of selling off (taxable) assets to live, the superrich use those assets as collateral for “securities backed loans” which are nontaxable. Elon Musk, for instance, takes no salary. He uses his ($94 billion) Tesla stock as collateral for loans he uses to fund his lavish lifestyle and provide ready cash as needed.

Mark Zuckerberg, Larry Ellison, Warren Buffett and Jeff Bezos—to name a few billionaires we all know of, take little or no salary—their compensation comes in the form of untaxable stock options they can leverage.

If you think this can’t go on forever, you’re wrong. Even when these billionaires die, the value of assets gained during their lifetimes are immune to taxation. At that point, some assets can be sold by heirs to pay off the outstanding loans, again, without worrying about taxes.

TA DAAAA. Now you know how the rich do it. How they avoid taxes in both life and death, and manage to leave massive fortunes to their heirs.
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Songs for this:
Done Changed My Way of Living by Taj Mahal
Run On by Elvis Presley

THE LAST AMERICAN
CONFESSION TO OR TOO
OF FOOLS DUE THUS
ARE FRIENDS AS FEW
THE LAST AMERICAN
THE LORD TO OR TOO
WHAT GOOD A PAY
A TRUTH RIGHT TO
THEREFORE TOO AM
THE LAST AMERICAN
A CRY TO OR TOO AS
I CONFESS. I LOVE YOU.