On Winning and Sinning
We've had our castes, our classes, sects and tribes.
And all of these remain, along with bribes.
But now, as "winners", "losers", we're divided.
And all the "losers" ever win are jibes.
Our virtues old, we've long exchanged for vice.
To those who're young, we give this shrewd advice:
"When 'winning' is the only thing that counts,
Then who has use for those who still are nice?"
The race is on, and all are running fast.
The gentle folk are those who finish last.
"Produce, consume and sock away your stash."
That mantra
is – and all the rest is past.
In every land, the workers rise at dawn
To race to work. And others, every morn,
Return from working on the graveyard shift.
We work and work, until we're dead and gone.
How much of labor! Yet the question, "Why?"
Is rarely asked, until it's time to die.
To pay the rent, to feed ourselves, our kids –
Are these the reasons? Who perceives the lie?
There's food enough and room enough, indeed
To house us, feed us – more than what we need.
For we and our machines – we work enough
In half our time – for all but endless greed.
Ignore the corporatists and their rants.
We've harvested the labor of the plants –
The myriad seeds of grass, the fuels below –
And yet we labor at our jobs like ants.
So pause to trace the path that value takes
From where it's made, where human labor slakes
The thirst that drives the ancient feeding chains
To where it ends, within the bankers' lakes.
And see – from there, the cash, in cycles, flows
And hither, thither, 'round the planet goes
To everywhere that rent and debt are used
To lead the harried workers by the nose.
How many hopes arise and then are dashed,
As profits grow and bonuses are cashed.
To Mammon's anvil, humans bound are led –
The hammer falls – and skulls and lives are smashed.
And what's the cordage that has long sufficed
To bind the ones who're daily sacrificed?
Their blood is flowing dark along the drains,
But few are they, who've paused – and so surmised.
Make no mistake – the jets that scream on high,
The cloud that rises in the crystal sky,
The fire below, the screams and silence – all
Are gifts of those who will not question why.
"That's how it is." they say and shrug or grin
And so they clear the path for more of sin.
"The way it is" is not by Nature made,
Nor made by gods, but those, who always win.
The Pharaoh once had stood between the sun
And those that worshiped both of them as one.
They worked the land from which he drew his wealth.
Six thousand years – and still we haven't won.
The newest Pharaohs now bestride the land
And their intrigues are still the stories grand.
We workers toil – and ever faster run,
And though we lose, we rarely understand.
The game is rigged. The scam is always on.
And those, who're losing, cheer the winners on,
For we've been gypped, and so we only blame
Ourselves and luck for how our lives have gone.
And so this worker writes, perhaps in vain.
He writes, so each of you can ease the pain.
Arise and see, what mischief is about
And end it, so it does not start again.
It's time the winners tasted too of loss,
It's time for drudges to defy the boss.
But only when we rise together, will
There be a chance for us to win this toss.
There's fortune, blowing in the winds of chance,
And there are pipers, playing us the dance.
And we can go with wind or piper or
Resolve to stand and take our measured stance.
Let's call for revolution, of a kind
That opens eyes and ears and also mind.
Until we see and hear and understand,
We'll never pause, our value true, to find.
But only when we pause can we begin
To see that we, who've lost, can also win.
So here's a catch that's needs to be released –
So virtue is, where now there's only sin.
As long as vice is seen as what is needed,
So long will labor's voice remain unheeded.
To cynics and to parasites, we say,
The time will come, when you will be defeated.
For though the ignorance is broad and deep,
Beneath the murk, the sense will slowly seep
Until it flows, in currents, like a tide
That clears away the rotten garbage-heap.
Then "winning, losing" will no longer be
The chorus that we hear, the fog we see.
Then vice and sin will yield to vision, yes,
As rivers open to the boundless sea.
And for that time I wait. And if I die
Before that hour, and on my deathbed sigh
Because I did not live to see it, then
Remember still to ask that question, "Why?"
When those like me are dead and gone, there still
Will come the ones who'll question, with a will.
And all the myths and lies and fakery
Will yield to those who dare to deeply drill.
"The way it is" is not by gods dictated.
This "winning, losing" we have overrated.
And this is what has led us into sin.
But sin is not the thing for which we're fated.
"The way it is" is not by gods designed,
To losing, workers long have been resigned...
But if, indeed, it's good, at times, to win,
Then by the gods, a win, we have in mind.
2015 February 16th, Mon. 9:36 pm
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York
