#corporation
It’s a neat linguistic trick, a pun for the age,
A headline’s sharp hook on a gilded page.
The "I" is yourself, the singular soul,
The "U" is the union, a shared common goal,
Then "S" for the States, the land on the map,
And "A" for America, snug in the lap
Of a brilliant acronym, a debt turned to art---
A promissory note tattooed on the heart.
An I.O.U.S.A., a clever, sad song,
A market of promises, short-term and long.
We owe it to ourselves, this union, this place,
To build the next future with grit and with grace.
A national mortgage, a contract, a start.
But wait.
What is an IOU, if not a confession
Of a hole in the fabric, a gap in possession?
A promise extracted from breath yet to come,
A lien on the sunrise, a tax on the sum
Of labor not given and lives yet unled,
A mortgage not on a house, but on the head
Of a child not yet born, who wakes in the dark,
To sign with his future a covenant stark.
Who is this "I," swollen with wanting and dread?
Who is this "U," anesthetized, overfed,
Rolled over in Congress, in lobbies, in vaults?
And who are the scribes cataloguing the faults
While the ink on the note turns from black to a red
That’s no metaphor now, but the blood of the dead?
Is it me? Is it you? Is it us in a trance,
Watching the long, slow, leveraged end of the dance?
And what of the "SA"?
Sanctuary? Salvation? A solvent charade?
A suffix that turns a debt slip to a nation
And nations to debt slips, a slow liquidation.
What a sterile, accountant’s moral disgrace,
To see a republic not as a living face,
Not as a home, a hunger, a huddled refusenik’s plea,
But a balance-sheet entity, S.A., Inc.
Whose assets are rivers, whose liabilities are the poor,
Whose goodwill is a flag they haven’t yet torn.
Whose debt-service coverage ratio is paid
With the marrow of the sick and the dreams that are made
To be packaged, securitized, bundled, and sold
To a cold, distant future too weary to scold.
It’s the quantified soul of a people in hock,
It’s the key in the door and the click of the lock.
I.O.U.S.A.---a long-term debit of the spirit,
Recited so often we no longer hear it.
Not a promise to build, but a writ to collect,
A future not honored, but just cashed as a check
Post-dated to Never, on the bank of Despair,
Leaving nothing for breathing but the audited air.
May 11
May 11, 2026 at 3:45 AM UTC
The TV and papers, tell all the same lies
who did what when, where and what died
political the bend, depends on the skew
why or if, you believe that it's true
Nothing for granted, take all with the salt
careful and critical, somebodies fault
liberals care, that we all are the same
Dem and the Reps, have their share of blame
When the day ends, can you sleep with your view?
and weigh in on the facts, if known, from the news?
nothing we're fed, by media machines
can truly be held to the flame
Thus my friend, opinions are such
cuz the facts, are not always
the same
Jul 21, 2023
Jul 21, 2023 at 11:21 AM UTC
Go there for your rota
There for your orders
Fill up the quotas
We'll bill for you quarters
Report to your foreman
But watch for construction
Cause if you get hurt you've damaged our property
Did you not read the Company policy?
That defines you as the Company's property
That waivers your say in autonomy
The conglomerates got you in lock and key
We put the dollar back into idolatry
If you're upset you can rent an apology
We're a family forged in bureaucracy
No I in "team" but there's "con" in economy
Were you expecting rights?
Were you hoping for fairness?
My friend you're indentured and pleasure's exempt from your tenure so venture back down to your slum
That's provided at generous prices
Your worth is determined by your sacrifices
A small term of service when down of the surface
Interment's a freebie that comes with the purchase
We work
To earn the right to work
To earn the right to give
Ourselves the right to buy
Ourselves the right to live
To earn the right to die
Mar 11, 2020
Mar 11, 2020 at 6:47 PM UTC
You built me a casket that was too small and expected I would accept it quietly.
-t.s.
Nov 29, 2019
Nov 29, 2019 at 12:18 AM UTC
They called me yesterday
a mission to the stars
hell of a long way too go
the distance, very far
A Galactic Ambassador
emissary to the Universe
teach them of us
myriad and diverse
Messages from earth to them
communications key
what they may want too trade
valuables, we'll see
I'd only caution patience
Corporations would demand
we rip them off every time
as per the Corporate plan
Jun 2, 2018
Jun 2, 2018 at 1:08 PM UTC
ISOMETRIC SYSTEMS L.L.C
THANK YOU FOR YOUR SOUL PURCHASE OF THIS AUTOMATED MIND COLLECTION,
WITHOUT YOUR ORGANIC PURCHASING POTENTIAL, WE WOULD CEASE TO EXIST
PLEASE CONTINUE TO SUPPORT THE SYSTEM BY PURCHASING AND UTILIZING YOUR LIQUID ASSETS
WE EXPECT, AS ALWAYS, TO REPORT A REVENUE INCREASE FOR OUR SHAREHOLDERS BY THE END OF THE FISCAL YEAR
IF THE PRODUCT YOU RECEIVED WAS UNSATISFACTORY OR DEFECTIVE, PLEASE ADDRESS THE ATTACHED CONSUMER REPORT CARD TO YOUR NEAREST CONSUMER RELATIONS AGENT, WHERE A HYPER-SPECIALIZED INDIVIDUAL WILL BE ABLE TO ASSIST YOU.
WE STRIVE TO PROVIDE A 100% CLEAN AND CAREFULLY CURATED STATE OF MIND
SO THAT YOU DON’T HAVE TO.
Jan 3, 2018
Jan 3, 2018 at 10:34 PM UTC
Coded the firewalls, residing on the periphery
Insuring IDS and IPS, maintain security
Chasing packets down the wire, elusive, slippery
Black Hats in the wings, harbingers, of digital heresy
Driving through the data, mining superfluous type sin
Knowing everything, of where and when, and everyplace you've been
Bits and bytes, shreds of truth, even if, it's thick or very thin
Down copper paths and roads, memories gleaned from soldered tin
Security and privacy, a fallacy, perpetrated on the user base
They track you and record, nothing safe, at any site or place
Providers collude with government, profit, ever a corporate race
Removing what you can, but never gone, not without a trace
Nov 8, 2016
Nov 8, 2016 at 7:46 AM UTC
Most people lost in trance,
No moral No virtue, none taking stance,
Corporations, profiling the masses for profit,
Wisdom, a lost art, never a conversation topic,
Most people lost in trance,
Thinking, intellect seems active... but at glance,
The masses follow but a single or many devils dance,
Compassion forbidden, ignorance in forever expanse.
Wickedness spreading even in a happy song,
The Path of Ancients, forgotten, what has gone wrong?
Spirituality always seen as an unscientific farce,
A pure state of consciousness, truly: a lost Art.
As a the masses defile, few seek purity,
All with masks on, fearing true reality,
Fools fooling fools, a vicious cycle,
Kings and pawns, dreaming of power and titles.
Lost in trance, for others amusement,
Greed seekers doing even the devil's recruitment,
Pollutants in all, mind, heart and body,
Lost in trance, devoid of potentiality.
A few fools, feeding on ignorance for money,
Truly, lost in trance, a lost humanity.
Jul 18, 2016
Jul 18, 2016 at 7:56 PM UTC
The world is filled with swine in suits and ties,
hogging down and ******** out lies,
stopping here and there,
to trim their tusks and tame each others hair,
for appearance certainly is a must,
when you're a creature none should trust.
Sludge and slop goes to the top,
to feed the greedy boars.
The filthy ****** spread their legs from shore to shore
always wanting and demanding more and more.
From behind a locked door,
somewhere on an eighteenth floor,
you can hear their squealing cries,
smell their wretched sties,
and feel the hate that pours,
from their blackened beady eyes.
Use caution where you tread,
and think before you fill your head.
Be careful with which words you choose to believe,
for not everyone is who they seem to be.
Sep 30, 2015
Sep 30, 2015 at 11:40 AM UTC
Insipid darkness
is no better womb for
thoughts.
Decent thoughts, maybe good
GREAT thoughts.
Thoughts that will flow
like the lava of imported electricity
not-but-should-be circulating in Gaborone's veiny grid.
But who cares?
Well, okay, your mother, now swearing
at the singed-black TV screen
(she's missed her daily soap).
Mother Darkness breeds thinkers.
Tell me, in the scramble for your cellphone flashlight,
did you find your inner Plato?
Ah, no, you surely became
a lightbulb,
humming with the shocks of unwritten words.
It is these minutes of lightless inertia when
it's best to tap your swollen top instead
of lighting a candle.
See, sun rays and tube lights dull the finish of ideas;
corporation-induced darkness provides more suitable conditions.
So you must tap the glass globe on your shoulders
and feel, yes,
feel the grey filament
within, buzzzzzzzz
Electricity.
Edison's 'Eureka!' finally
happening, as all 'Eurekas!' do, in
(literally) colourless mundane.
(Note to self: Write a thank-you email to that pathetic power corporation for your rebirth as a glow)
Thoughts.
Thoughts and thoughts, thoughts,
thoughts.
thoughts,
thoughts,
thoughts and
thoughts,
coming in viscous gallops,
extra voltage baby, thoughts!
Thoughts, thoughts, thoughts,
IDEA.
You are no longer living!
You exist as shards of yes, one GREAT whole,
one...brace-taste the word now...
idea.
You are glimmers of something greater.
You are hot charges of energy your country failed to harness.
Sparked at the flick
of a lazy corporation's switch:
they
cut the power which
cut the flow in the varicose veins of Gaborone which
cut your bedroom's plastic brightness which
cut the bored-contented moment you were wallowing in which
cut your breath (still-half-scared of the dark, you) which
cut the blood flow to your grey matter which
cut the oxygen supply, replaced the fuel with electricity
and then you could think.
Thoughts
and
thoughts
and
what will you do with them? If
you dare the sun's brilliance,
you might land up as some poor Icarus;
if you wait a half-volt longer,
I'm afraid the fuse will blow, madam and
your mother cannot comprehend these blue-light shocks,
please find a paper and a pen
immediately.
Ah.
So the electricity must, after all,
power something.
And in the crackling dash
to eke out your blow-blaze-brim-burn words
onto something that will last longer
than today's ration of blackness,
the power comes back.
Mind chars into itself.
Snuffed too soon, you pathetic power corporation,
why did you put me out like that?
Your mother turns to you and mutters
'Thank God.'
Aug 25, 2015
Aug 25, 2015 at 4:23 AM UTC
February 14th
the most overrated day
all cards and candy.
so ******* cliche.
but big companies love it
they think it's the ****
turning a simple day about love into
buy me this! buy me this!
******* hallmark and Hershey and flowers.com
and Vicks Secret think all the money is the bomb
but still we shell out millions and break our collars
only 85% of the time is there sincerity behind the dollars
Love is beautiful, it should be celebrated daily, not once a year
Everyday you should show you care not just so they'll find something **** to wear
so **** Valentine's, **** hallmark, **** cards and candy,
and if I'm single forever for saying this, well that's fine and dandy
Feb 8, 2015
Feb 8, 2015 at 3:41 AM UTC