The month of May may not be a part
Of our struggle. It belongs to those
Who have chosen to remember the
Blots of blood showered along the

Mendiola pavement, paving a closely-
Knit kinship of beliefs and bewildered
Minds, of a passing moment, of a
Movement passed on generations.

Struggles don't end, for they never begin.
Gun's barrel is where power grows. Mao
Theorized it, generations lived it. Not until
This generation's search for new reason,

Tilling fields

Are mapped in the hearts of the masses;
Where new weapons are fashioned, new
Passion grows for living the theory, for
Doing philosophy out of soil, out of gears.

Superstructure is rebuilt on chalkboards.

Let there be light
Let there be humans
Give them a garden
Let them be companions
It was all so simple
A world just for two
Nature would provide
Now what should they do?
The seasons are learned
Along with day and night
There is dangers in the wild
But what about wrong and right?
The beauty of one another
Brought their bodies together
One day something happened
It was no longer just each other

There was a baby to feed
And other families emerged
They were drawn together
As their problems converged
Food, shelter, water, safety
These things required action
Someone had to do something
Reality caused a reaction
But who would do what?
Who could hunt or lift a stone?
Could they become a village?
Or is it to each his own?
Who would decide?
Who would object?
Were they in agreement?
Or would they always reject?

One selfish man
And a plan will fail
One greedy man
And the garden is for sale
Would a man live for need
And not for his wants?
Would a man cure the infirm
And be paid only with thanks?
Would a man read a book
And study until he sleeps?
Would he use his knowledge
And reject the reward he reaps?
Is this the way to achieve greatness
With no discernment among men?
Everyone the same
No matter how driven?

The ocean beckons
As do the mountains
The lakes and the streams
Are natures fountains
Will they be cared for
If we live wild and free?
Will a man be happy
Not plundering all he can see?

And so the rock must be lifted
And we look around the cave
One man’s back is broken
And another says, “I’m no slave”
So the rock remains
As do we in the cave
Who will get food tonight?
“It’s not my turn” he said with a wave

How much is too much
For you to have all you need?
How much is too much
Before you notice the greed?
Think of it this way
You ask a man to play a flute
He can make you smile
But will praise be his fruit?

A good man will share what he has
And he will accept what he receives
But how many good men do you know?
And how many are thieves?
Would you rather wear a fur
Or harness the heat?
Would you rather live outdoors
Or have a home on a street?
And who will do this for you
Without their just reward?
Can you live like an animal
Or accept greeds mighty sword?

And so do you want my wool
In trade for your milk?
But the home he built for you
Requires that he receive silk
But milk is all you have
So you must live outdoors
How do we accommodate
When I can't use yours?

It's a matter of trust
I say what I render
Equals what you accept
And paper became legal tender
And if you agree
Though paper is not milk
Then I will build your house
Because now I can buy my silk
And in this way
Our wants become cultivated
And the lazy man
Is suddenly motivated

As the thinking man observes
The power of the capitalist tool
And the rivers of paper
That once was milk and wool
He wonders how it came to pass
That a world of cows and sheep
Became one of oil and gas
It happened while some did sleep
In the fury of comfort and reward
And technological devices
Are we better off
Or have we invented new vices?

I am happy for my children’s comfort
But at what cost to another?
Is it a zero sum game
With a winner and a loser?
Will the next big thing
Happen without their just reward
Or should we just pray to God
And put down our paper sword?
Is there a consensus among men
That can ever be reached?
Or will we always fail
And will egalitarianism be breached?

I wonder of these things
As we print more and more
The paper is all that matters
We want ours and all else we ignore
Is there a limit
On the value of milk and wool
Will we continue as we are
Who will win, the bear or the bull?

The diseased roots have come to
lay bare. My fear so strong, this one thing secretly
paralyzing me, feigning it be a natural
friend or even the paper on the wall, written in
reflecting ink, permeating every part of me.

When time calls out for the necessity of my
bold action, I will run out into fire for another
but for myself, I hold no peace. So how can one

come out for other beings like this? It’s no

fact of toil, the lot befallen to us, all
the weary, is love. So when these hearts have the space
to call for justice, the lone world will tremble
from our contradictory bravery, unity in the
numbers, forsaken by only the giro templates.

If only this fear knew the strength I find
in lonely places, solely accompanied by sacred whispers
of revolution. How much we want it, I hear the call
in the night across the vastness.

The uncaring trees with pleading hands
will burn black, and the little birds fly free to
where fear no longer exists.


© July 28th, 2014