all this so fits together;  & we argue & fuss;  & the wheels turn;  & my stomach turns;  &

 th media sows ruin because they must; n th steel mills, where men made cannonballs, rust

while the blood line  is inexplicably gouged-out  by shadow-figures  in exhibitions  of dust

a cold handshake: call it sell-out, call it bidness, call it preservation instinct ~~ give & take

& everyone else downline iz lost focus, lest she fall b‘tween cracks; cracks are for th rest

if one claims compassion  and then sells-out to big medicine n big energy n big asshalves

for sake of career growth, then one’s truth is thin as the falling dollar n similarly asshalved

there were those long ago who fought for justice  & not for gain,  yet still they were,  even

then, enchained & shipped away to Van Diemen’s Land   it still exists, the blood’s still ripe

the dead dog is rotting in the sun, carrion birds (ugly fuckers but they can take wing) feast

but who’s feeding on whom anymore in this polarization station we call get-up n get sum

if the plan is fixed, the winner already planted, the show only distraction,  then what’s left

for sum of us to fuss about?  Are we fussing 4 sake of the fuss or do we have ½ a chance? 

is it merely instinctual to plant our feet in the corner, back against the post, ..jab & weave,

brace for th flurry that is certain, but deniable until a blur of arena lights from the canvas?

how can people who know the wisdoms o joy, kindness, respect n decency be shredded to

dust so handily by those who seem to have only condescension for the living/breathing we?

how can this have been a worthwhile reason to be born, to toil & adventure,  to procreate?

how can a mother of children sell-out another mother of children, knowing the real score?

man-o-live, we must be in the midst of malevolence so outrageous  to view the murder of

monks, the dissemination of ire, the invention of endless war & privatization of everything

when the exact opposite of all this could mean  the dawn of a miraculous revival on earth;

one that would not stop th rich from being richer or th poor from knowing peace & home

even th crap we’ve come to dig in our lives like sport & drink don’t require this shitstorm

in the end, it’ll be the carrion birds (ugly fuckers but they can take wing) who own th airwaves

&, like m’ (dead but not forgotten) pops used to say, “It so could have been another way.”