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The Wuhan Crap

Under Pressure

We began each day as before,

Watch the news of impending doom.

Walking lines into the floor.

Staring at the walls in the same ole room.

 

Watch the news of impending doom.

“Do not gather” “Stay at home”

Staring at the walls in the same ole room.

We wonder where freedom has gone.

 

“Do not gather” “Stay at home”

No more work, no more school.

We wonder where freedom has gone.

Journeymen, put down your tools.

 

No more work, no more school.

Paying folks a hefty wage.

Journeymen, put down your tools.

Sit upon your ass all day.

 

Paying folks a hefty wage.

Drain the coffers even more.

Sit upon your ass all day.

This Wuhan crap is a frickin bore.

 

They move us farther into debt.

We began each day as before.

Train us like a faithful pet,

Walking lines into the floor.

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We, the People

Endless Road

On display, for all the world to see.

Scribed in blood upon the stretched flesh

of the oppressed. Freely given,

though seldom recognized.

 

Children flock to see me in bright yellow busses.

Foreigners muse over me as a novel concept,

with noses held high. Enemies gnaw at me from

within, like plague-ridden rats.

 

Still, I remain.

Battered, yet unbroken.

Perfect? Not even close.

Timeless? No, but living.

 

Slowly dying of neglect.

Watching the blood of innocents flood our streets

as I wait patiently for a transfusion.

A firm hand, the quill awaits.

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Dissonance

In concentric rows they sit,

stand, and display their wildfire

red or tsunami blue plumage

strutting and posing, posturing, like so many

magnificent birds

in heat.

 

“Look at me!” “Look at me!” They beg

through veneered smiles. Professing truths

with fork-ed tongues.

Forming committees to form

committees. Planning meetings to plan

meetings. Conducting hearings

about the hearings. All-the-while, throwing

shade with sideways glances

as they stamp

out Progress.

 

The Earth spins, the seasons pass,

crops and wars come

and go

like ant-hill dictators.

Currency, their Commander,

Personal Gain,

their Objective.

 

The Five Hundred and Thirty-Eight—

this is their Thermopylae.

A Spartan, each they see,

beholding the mirror.

The paper piles high

in the wake

of Battle.

 

Behold the great deeds.

Proclaim the accomplishments.

Praise the mighty as they

trample

each

other.