Sterility

Sterility

It seems
the poets of our age are in
a sort of limbo, neither here nor there.
They're disconnected from the earth.
The sky’s a thing
they haven’t cared to look at in a while.
And what they write
is often nothing more
than phrases, images that rise and flow,
as if
they've left behind their thought,
their history
and even
their humanity – to float
within that zone that they pretend
is poetry.

2015 April 7th, Tue. 1:23 am
Brooklyn, New York
  

Dialog – A Teacher Retires

     
Dialog – A Teacher Retires
  
There are ways that we die, in our bodies and minds,
And one is the way of the worker,
Who may labor for pay but who frequently finds
She’s imprisoned, because she’s no shirker.
 
If you care for a child or an elder or one
Who is ailing – or teach in a school,
And you care for your wards or your subjects, you run
And you slave – and they think you’re a fool.
 
So you’re treated like dirt, by the ones who’re in charge
And even by those, whom you work with.
You’ll be robbed of your sleep and your peace, till discharge
From the job, as a worker unfit.
  
I’ve taught many years in the schools in a borough
That once was a city as well.
And I’ve learned how to teach so as not to be thorough
And so earn a good living from hell. 
 
To “go with the flow” is to say what is apt,
To pass off, as truth, what’s a lie –
For the one who’s not clever, who cannot adapt,
Is swatted and squashed like a fly.
 
“I’ve had it, my friend!” my co-worker said,
“I feel I’m a moron – a fool!
I can’t do my job, there’s a fire in my head,
And soon, I’ll be starting to drool.
 
“The sleep that I get isn’t restful or long –
I’m panicked and always behind.
I can’t do the things that they want. I belong
In a nuthouse – I’m losing my mind!
 
“I can see that my days in this job will be dire,
Even more than they’ve been till this day,
Unless I can change – which I can’t. To retire
And be poor, is what’s left as the way.
 
“There were times, in the past, when the work had its fun,
When I felt that my labor had paid,
So I slept well at nights. Though I still had to run,
I could do so.  My nerves weren’t frayed.

“I have taken as much as I can of this strife.
I will have to retire now, my friend.
So this year is my last.  Though this job’s been my life,
It is time now to end it – or end.”

I answered him lightly, with scant consolation.
Perhaps I’d been at it too long.
My manner had roughened, from years of frustration
In a place, where I did not belong.

“We’re here in a nuthouse, that’s also a jail.”
I said to my colleague and friend.
“The sincere – in this job, they are destined to fail –
For they’ve heart, and don’t follow the trend.

“You’ve been working too long – and you’re paying the cost,
For we’re marching and prancing in step,
But you’re tired and confused. You are frightened and lost,
And you feel you’re the stupidest schlep.

“Oh hi-dilly-dilly and hi-dilly-do!
You don’t see a way to get out of your rut.
So sing with me, hidi-hi, sing with me more!
For what does it matter, if they think you’re a nut?

“How can you think, when your brain is on fire –
If you’ve worked and you’ve worked and it still makes no sense?
So sing with me, hidi-hi!  Before you retire,
Sing with me loudly, and you won’t be so tense.

“Oh pity the young ones, and pity those caught
As they’re ground by the millstones of madness to flour.
And think, what you’ve suffered – and vow, there’ll be naught
That you won’t do to stop this, that’s still in your power.

“For how can you think, when your mind is aflame –
When all that you’ve worked for is whittled to naught?
So sing with me, hi-dilly, hidi!  For blame
Won’t free all the students and teachers who’re caught.

“So you first must escape – and put out that flame.
And then, with your thinking and speaking and acts,
Put an end to the running and lying and blame –
Dispense with the falsehoods and deal with the facts.”

“I’m tired and confused – for it’s all so surreal!
But the outside is better, you say?
There are times, when I think that this just isn’t real –
That I’ll function again, if I stay.

"Perhaps all the teachers will rise up and cry,
‘We had it!  Enough, with this dung!’
Perhaps then our union, on hearing that cry,
And fearing, will get back its tongue?”

I laughed – and I told him, what cynics would say.
And he winced, when he heard what I said.
Perhaps I was harsh in my words and my way,
For he listened – and hung down his head.

“They’ve got us, they’ve got us!  There’s Bloomberg and Arnie.
There’s Rhee and there’s Gates and there’s Cuomo and Klein.
And who is resisting? Is Mulgrew or Randy?
Ach nein, meine Herren und Damen!  Ach, nein!

“So sing with me, hidi-ho, hi-dilly-dee!
You’ll still go out singing, although you’ll sing low.
And when you’ve retired, remember then me!
And do then your damndest, so this is no more!”

“What?  Escape from the jailhouse and stay at its fences?
You surely are joking, my friend in the jail?
Say what?  They’ll still get me, the Bloombergs and Gateses?
My pension?  Oh come on!  This city can’t fail…”

“My friend and colleague, who’s retiring, who’s worked
His sentence of years and yet more – yes I know
That you gave of your best – and you rarely have shirked,
But your work is beginning – and your labor will grow.

“But sing and rejoice!  For now you’ll be free!
No more of the dread and the drudgery, no!
You’ll work now for love – and for those who’re like me.
For us and our students, you’ll settle the score.”

He had listened and quieted. I waited a while.
It seemed, at a juncture, my friend had arrived –
For he looked at me strangely, with a sad sort of smile,
As he spoke to me softly, in a whisper that knifed.

“You’re dreaming, my friend, who is caught in the school.
I’ll think of you often – and perhaps you are right.
I’ll still have to fight on – but only a fool
Would flee from the darkness – to run back to night!”

My turn, to be quiet!  Our roles had reversed.
It was I, who now felt like a fool.
And perhaps this was right. For a man should be cursed,
Who has treated his friend like a mule.

He left rather early.  He was late the next day.
I saw he was smiling.  I guessed at the why,
But asked for a reason.  He answered me, gay,
“I’m off to the city, to tell them ‘goodbye’.”
 
2014 September 28th, Sun.
(edited & added to, October 8th, Wed.)
Brooklyn, New York
    

With Harlot Falsehoods

With Harlot Falsehoods
                                       
When we've walked the road of verity,
Throughout our lives – with all our human faults,
Abstaining from the vices of the lie –
The path of falsehood then cannot be borne.

And when we've been obedient to the call
Of conscience, ever heeding heart's advice,
To disobey is as a living death,
A torture, hell ascended to this earth.

And yet, observe, how in survival's name,
Or merely for ambition, some, with ease,
Can lie throughout their lives and can benumb
Their consciences and hearts for worldly ends.

And slaves, be they in chains of iron or
Of silver, must obey the master's lip.
And those, who quickest shed their scruples, thrive
And do not shy from wielding lie and whip.

So should we martyr minds and bodies for
The quiet voices that we hear within,
Or should we yield to fear or seek to rise
By doing what we see the others do?

The question comes and must be answered, yet
We seek, from this dilemma, some escape.
We all have duties to our selves and kin.
Should mere survival then be viewed as sin?

And yet, those voices, that we've listened to,
Will not be stilled.  They fill our nights and days.
To path of justice, heart and conscience call.
And every step away dismays the soul.

And those, who've wedded selves to truth, cannot
With harlot falsehoods lie a moment long.
And yet, the webs of lies entrap their souls,
And they are found, where they do not belong.

******
   
The ways, that lead to what some call as "god"
And others, "truth", are varied, manifold.
So each may choose to walk upon the way
That's fit for him or her, while harming none.

And all creation, all that's filled with light,
Has source in this.  Compulsion kills the soul.
But even that, which free creation brings,
Is used to slaughter and to dominate.

How many ways have humans engineered,
To make, of others, slaves!  So all, that minds
Have wrought, in innocent ingenuity,
To free us, then is swiftly turned to this.

So farming gave us brigand kings and turned
The freemen into serfs.  And now we see
Computers, mathematics used to serve
As watchdogs on the herds that daily teach.

It will not be.  We shall not be a part
Of evil, though our backs are loaded, bent.
We'll bear our burdens, labor as we've done,
But will not harm our wards or blur our truths.

Our lives have taught us that humility
That those of hubris rarely see till end.
And yet, whatever remnant self-respect
Remains, demands we do not dance to lies.

For how can we fulfill our duties core,
When heart and reason clearly say, "Do this."
And fear and slavery proclaim, "Do that."?
We choose the freeman's path of clarity.

Whatever punishment that brings, we'll bear,
With inmost beings calm, in dignity.
We'll do our work and walk the path of love,
And that will be, for us, reward enough.

stanzas prior to the break written
2013 September 4th, Wed. night
(after being briefed for two days
on the new teacher-evaluation
system in New York City) and
stanzas following the break
added September 5th,Thu.
and September 6th, Fri.,
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn

 Comments below.
  

Syria

Syria
                 
I saw the horrors on the Internet,
Of little children lying dying, dead,
Of adults kicking, spasming, being held,
As poison did its cruel work on them.

And if I hadn't had my dinner, then
I probably would rise from watching this,
With dinner warmed and ready, and would  eat,
While chatting with my wife on this and that.

I wonder what we all would do if all
That's perpetrated in a war or peace,
Would reach our screens, so sights of burning flesh,
And sounds of screams were heard as watchers dined.

I wonder.  Then I think, how every day
The men and women drive to work and sit
In front of screens – and guide, to targets, bombs
That then explode in places far away.

And some of them may see the ones who burn,
Who run like ants with clothes and flesh aflame,
And some are children, mothers burned to death,
Or maimed, disfigured, left to rot in pain.

And each of these must then, in turn, arise
And drive to homes where they can eat and talk,
With children and with spouses, some of them,
At peace again at end of working day.

So if indeed we saw what nations do,
Be they perceived as foes or closest friends,
I wonder if the world might change or not.
I think I still might eat and carry on.

But then, of course, we haven't reached there yet,
And if it goes like this, might never do.
We'll see the horrors that we blame on those
We see as foes, but rarely what we do,

Each land has troubles of its own enough,
But when the powers use it as a stage
On which to fight their battles, then we see
Unending grief and endless misery.

In Syria, we see what might be us,
If we have come from India or a place
Where many peoples mix and live as one,
With tensions past and present underneath.

We know the fuse, when lit, will burn and then,
If not put out, will lead to lethal end,
A death not brief and merciful but one
That makes of life and land a living hell.

2013 August 31, Sat.
Brooklyn
   
Strange Encounter    

Yet More Advice

Yet More Advice
     
 (There are references, in parts, to the most recent horrific events in Egypt.  Remembering all the sacrifice and hope of the "Arab Spring", let us hope that courage, reason, humanity, sober idealism and sanity prevail over fear, irrationality, brutality, cynicism and insanity. )
                                                     
If you find a vassal country takes a path that you dislike,
It's your duty to divert it, with a bold preemptive strike.

But when bleeding troops and money, you had better think of ways,
By which to wield your influence.  A little thinking pays.

You can call for free elections and for freedom of the press.
If you don't like who's elected, push for freedom to repress.

And some advice to vassals too – don't take your boss for granted.
They'll let you hang tomorrow – if circumstance demands it.

So if you are the rulers there, depend not on what's distant.
Depend instead on power raw, and seize the precious instant.

If you've ruled a nation long enough (being really who's in charge),
You know that to retain it, there are duties to discharge.

Elections can be dangerous, the people then have say.
The military then must move – express a forceful “Nay!”

You can engineer conditions that will have them up in arms –
The populace – and those who are dependent on your alms...

You can tolerate the ones who're hip, and even spoon them honey,
But you've got to draw the line with those, who're sniffing for the money.

If you buy your suits in London and your wine is shipped from France,
You can't brook interruptions in your dinner or your dance.

Your children are at Stanford, and you've got to pay the fees.
So there's little choice, except to promptly deal with the disease.

The masses, you've contempt for – for they're backward and they're vile.
Can you let them enter in your rooms – and settings then defile?

They are talking of an Allah, and who knows where that may lead?
There are demons there in plenty, who on such as you may feed.

And if they taste of power, then it's curtains for your crowd.
It's then Paris, Rome or London.  But you mustn't say this loud...

For your fiefdom, it is there, where the Nile is flowing broad,
Where the Pharaohs and the Ptolemies had ruled, with spear and sword...

It's best to do it short and sharp, to cow them with your terror,
For laxity in this regard would be a serious error.

And if the slaughter continues – no matter, be resolved.
Such things will be forgotten, once you've got the problems solved.

It doesn't matter who you are – your politics, I mean.
It's power – that's what matters, and the rest becomes a sheen.

You can be a bearded mullah, wear a yarmulke or not,
But if you once buy into power, then you'll leave the rest to rot.

There are those who look to oracles, or pray to the divine,
But in politics, no miracles can build for you a spine.

So you've got to bite that bullet – with its taste and smell of grease.
You've got to swallow then your spit and pull that trigger –  please!

Astrologers may tempt you, you can have your palms be read,
But when it comes to enemies, you'd better have them dead.

There are graves enough for ditherers, or those who were uncertain,
It's better to be murderers, than ousted, that is certain.

The masses may be restive, but let's understand this truth:
They'll bear your rule in silence, if you show you're lacking ruth.

But know the ones to squeeze and also know the ones to culture.
The spoils of war and peace are used, to loyal vassals nurture.

Pay tributes to the ones above, from those below, get same.
In finance, as in bedrooms, there's no place or point in shame.

You've got to have that instinct for subservience to power.
Today it is the U.S.A., tomorrow's another's hour.

That boss you had for many years is aging now, you see.
It's time to cultivate the one, who's itching, boss to be.

With power, as with money.  And the two may go together,
Or for a while may wander, till they reach their ends of tether.

You can shelter in a Dilli, in a Tokyo or Beijing,
But when you feel them quiver, then to old New York take wing.

And if Washington is shaking, then you'd better look around.
Whatever be your politics, let your finances be sound.

There are those who see the world as did the Buddha or the Jinas,
But the others see a chance to lose – or grasp and be the winners.

So there's no place for scruples or a doleful frame of mind.
Why seek for liberation, when your fortune, you can find?

The Century of Labor's past – another one is here.
It's time for entrepreneurship and casting off of fear.

Divisions sow, of every type.  It's best when they're divided.
The working class consists of sheep – by wolves of cunning herded.

Take the best of East and West and North and South – amalgamate!
Then you needn't fear a debacle, as in the Watergate.

You could kowtow to a Pinochet, a Reagan or a Mao,
But in dealing with the obstacles, can you follow still the Tao?

Pay obeisance then to Mammon – and to Lakshmi and Ganesha,
So you can say, "...diversified, by every kind of measure...".

****** 
  
You should wipe out now the Islamists (the moderates as well),
And label all as terrorists.  And some may see and tell.

How many will be listening?  There are interests at stake!
The sleepers, they will sleep through it. A scattered few may wake.

But make the price of waking steep.  And show them that you can,
With prison, maiming, murder and, of course, the legal ban.

The courts bow down to power, as the Pharaoh wields the sun.
And power comes, as Mao had said, from the barrel of a gun.

So show them all what terror is.  Riyadh will then applaud.
And from the Gulf will come support, to fire your flaming sword.

The Islamists have had their use.  Now use them as a ruse
To gain control – and then proceed, to ticking bombs defuse.

For after you have dealt with them, or even well before,
With the Communists and Socialists, you should settle full you score.

For vermin such, the time has come, to end their numbered days!
And all who matter will be glad, when you, their kind, erase.

So courage, then, oh generals!  The world relies on you!
Your Egypt will be prosperous.  And so, of course, will you!

And those who dither, from their doubts, will surely see the dawn.
They've interests – and so will come, with F16's, to fawn.

2013 August 16th Fri. & 17th, Sat.
(last 10 couplets added Aug. 19th, Mon.)
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn

More Advice

Advice
 

The Age of Packaging – Part II

       
The Age of Packaging – Part II 
             
in which the state of these United States (and perhaps of other countries) is described and reflected on, albeit with eye and mind of prejudice... 
           
The Age of Packaging is what we're in.
But there is more to say.  And we had thought
To leave that out, as it's dispiriting.
But pessimism has its uses, too.
So we shall venture now upon that road
And leave to you to follow us or not.

We shall endeavor now to wail a dirge,
With sordid details woven in that seem
To indicate the death was homicide –
Except that we're recounting the demise
Of what was left of sorry humankind,
And so, perhaps, it's suicide that fits...

And some of you, I'm sure, would disagree.
For soon, that dream we had, when realized,
Will let the village boy or girl access
The knowledge – and, perhaps, the wisdom – stored
And ever growing, of our human kind,
So all can use this – and can add to it.

And soon, that other aspect too
Of that same dream – that when their citizens
Converse – and see the others' sufferings,
The nations then might bomb and war no more –
This too, we hope, could be reality...

And that might be, but isn't yet, and those
Who're cynics – or are realists – might ask,
“When families and clans and villages
Resort to violence, can nations cease?”

And others yet, more hopeful, might reply,
“If provinces and cities find their peace,
And often do not care for race or creed,
Then nation-states may surely do the same,
Or else dissolve, in time, so men may move
About and do, what they have always done
To live, without the burdens of a state
Or nation or of empire on their backs.

“And as they talk, across the distances,
Their narrow prejudices then might yield
To broader vision, while what's local still
Is treasured, drawing vigor from the new.”

But all of this is dream and speculation.
We look around and view reality –
And though our sighting may be jaundiced, we
Perceive, that as before, each step we take,
Made possible by reason and by work,
Is then reversed – and all, that labor wrought,
Is turned around to deepen slavery.

This keeps us busy, as we need not be,
While even more distractions rise to cloud
Whatever vision gave us hope of clarity.

When life was simpler, and we ran with apes,
We cannot doubt that many still were caught
Within that web that beings weave, with selves
Emerging from that weaving, like those shapes
That close inspection sees are only threads
Of colors, magicked by embroidery.

But when that weaving too is done for us,
So we have even lost that freedom sole,
Then what remains, is to our ancient selves
As are the plastic prints to cloths of yore.

And so, while in the past one still might hope
To clearly see the woven self and so,
With gentle art, unravel all its knots,
What hope remains, when distant hands conspire
To tangle us so even gods despair?

And as we tire of all that comes our way –
In print or via copper, glass and through
The air itself, on oscillating fields,
We're even less inclined to look within
Those boxes black that run on magic code
That seems beyond our plebeian minds to ken,
To ask, from where the things that we consume
Have come – and how – whose labor was involved –
And whether what we're told by Congressmen,
By rabid ranters on the radio or
By salesmen – archetype of current age –
Is true or false.  A numbing apathy
Descends – and all we wish to sense
Are colors, sounds and titillations.  Pablums feed
Not only children, but our adults too.
We substitute, for facts, mythologies.

So all are turned to salesmen, pitching sales
Of goods and services and attitudes –
Plus wars, of course, as needed for the rest...
And all depends, at end, on packaging.

And only violence appears to wake
Our souls from somnolence.  We vent that rage
That stems from fear, frustration, ignorance.

We cannot see, through blinding prejudice.
We cannot hear the subtleties of tone,
With ears that have been blasted by the noise
That issues, amplified, from gadgets' mouths.
We gladly dance to tawdry piper's tunes
That lead us further into misery.

The package, when it's opened, then is seen
As having content that is clearly not
As we envisioned from the packaging.
So we're enraged, but rarely blame ourselves
Or even packagers, but someone else.

The system's rarely questioned much in depth,
By him, who is a modern fatalist,
Conditioned to be so, by all he's seen,
Despite the jive and all the packaging.

“A pinball game it is, this life,” he says,
And some will win, and hopefully, it's me,
But all of us are losers in the end.”

“So let us all consume, as best we can,
While running fast to earn, so we can spend,
Or if we're prudent, sock away that sum,
That's ever growing, for that future time
When we can either work no more or else
Are rich enough to finally relax.”

But then, too often, the unraveling:
The wealth has disappeared, along with health.
And what's now left is argument, divorce.
The dream's still distant. What is real, is debt.

And as with persons, so with larger realms.

“What happened?  This was not to supposed to be.
We cannot lose, for we're the winning kind.
It must be those and that and all the rest
That's come between us and the very best.”

And welcome, all, to world, as it's perceived
By optimists who flourish in the west
And surely, in our day, in east as well.
Mirages will be chased, as empires rise
And even as they fall to sordid death.

“So what, in this, is new?” you well might ask.
Our masses, long ago, to sheep were turned,
That did, as wolves-turned-herders, class of lords,
Commanded.  Violence was always used,
With law and church subverted for the ends
Of those who reigned and profited the most
From all the labor of the ones “below”.
This came to them along those feeding chains
That still exist.  But times have always changed,
With evils old acquiring newest names...

So now, it seems, the ones who do the best
Are those adept at selling, to the rest,
The products and the myths that propagate
And feed yet more the cancer that has spread
To all the globe, devouring all of life
And humankind itself.  For it's been found
That we've been numbed and dumbed enough to yield,
And gladly, to the art of packaging...

So commerce rules, as many had foretold,
And finance now is openly our king,
And as predicted, local business dies
As giants dominate the globe and run
Their races for resources, markets and
For humans, too, that robots can't replace.

And since so many care for price and show,
And little else, the jobs, to places go,
Where pay is least, conditions often worst.

And labor thus gets cheaper by the day
And yet must face replacement by the ones
Who need no wages, pensions, benefits,
Nor even sleep nor pause from constant toil,
But clank and whir – or function silently.

So many now are jobless. There's no land
Or village to return to.  Others strive
To join their ends – and work themselves to death.
Yet others thrive – or else make do on what
The race throws up – or government largess.

The ties of village and of clan are lost.
Traditions, cultures dissipate and die.
While some may celebrate the evils gone,
Some others see that evils new have come,
With horrors often even greater, yet
So packaged that they tempt unwary souls
And snare them in the nets they can't escape.

What once was virtue, now is seen as vice.
And newer vices rise, as virtues hailed...
So soul departs, with all of substance lost,
And all that's left is lust and violence.

There's more today of entertainment, food,
But less, by far, of depth and quality,
And dare we say, of plain humanity.
We live and die on “bread and circuses”.

The children are corrupted.  Innocence
Is quickly lost, impatience, shallowness,
Suspicion celebrated, trust misplaced,
Sincerity misunderstood, abused...

And yet, on all of this, the marketers
Are able still to put a glossy sheen,
As we can see in plastic packaging...

We do not know, what misery's behind
The food we eat, the clothes we wear, our drugs,
And all that we so willingly consume.
But there are those who suffer.  Yet we're told
They do so willingly – or else, it's God,
Who has ordained they serve our endless wants. 

And if we're scolded for this painting dark
That spreads the shadows, at expense of light,
And does not show the ones who benefit
From all that vision, driving labor, wrought,
We answer, “Surely, of those things, you've heard
Enough.  Discern advances genuine
From those that are yet more of packaging.

“Remember, we are beasts of local scope.
The more the distance is, the more the chance
Of scams.  To pipers, near or distant, do
Not dance – or if you do, step carefully...

“And open, if you can, the packaging.”

2013 August 4, Sun.
(additions made August 10, Sat.)
Brooklyn
   
The Age of Packaging -- Part I
    

The Age of Packaging – Part I

The Age of Packaging – Part I
      
We've learned that chapters of our human tale
Are named for stuff that formed our implements.
And so, we've had the Age of Stone, of Bronze,
Of Iron – and we're surely still within
The Age of Coal and Oil and Gas, as we
Now live, scavenging remnants, decomposed,
Of beings past that thrived on radiance –
That even now springs forth as corpses burn.

And all the “plastics” that might indicate
That we should call our times the Plastic Age,
At source, from these – and ocean, air – are made,
And so are many clothes and furnishings,
Plus dyes and drugs – and endless things beside.
And so we could, with right, proclaim that we
Are living still in an Age of Scavenging –
And celebrate this plateau high with glee.

But some would argue for another scheme
And say that we had passed from a Primal Age
To the Age of Herds and Farms – and then, of late,
To that of Industry – and now, they'd say,
We're at the dawn of yet another age,
Where all (in time) are linked by nets that keep
Us so aware of all the rest that we
Can shout, “We're in the Information Age!”

But there's another aspect, some would note,
Examining the garbage we discard,
The things we buy and sell – and all we do
To keep in motion this economy
And so survive – including, constantly,
The merchandising of ourselves.  They'd say
We've been, awhile, within a glorious age,
In which the wrapping counts – the gloss, the spin –
Far more than what's within.   As Content is
Dethroned, they'd hail – the Age of Packaging!

2013 August 4th, Sun.
Brooklyn

The Age of Packaging -- Part II
  

More Advice

       
More Advice   
  
Yes, I know of your credentials, as you've come to me commended
By an able old disciple, who has highly recommended
Your performance, for its slickness and its evidence of art –
And he tells me that you're on the way to getting rid of heart...

But he notes that you're uncertain on some matters – that you worry,
And at times, for needed actions, you have ended feeling sorry.
And he says that you are looking for a mentor, for a guide,
Who will aid you in your journey, one in whom you can confide...

So you've come to me requesting that I give you some advice.
But you'd better be prepared, as what I'll tell you isn't nice.
If you're looking to go higher, it behooves you to be shrewd.
Be polite to those who matter.  To the rest, you can be rude.

If you labored in a factory, then you'd do as you were told.
If you worked within an office, you'd be foolish to be bold.
You would follow all your orders and be loyal to your bosses,
Or your exit would be certain. You'd be counting up your losses.
  
Were you serving in an army – or teaching in a school,
You would surely have accepted that you're nothing but a tool.
If you'd started on a business, you'd be forced to toe the rules,
For the morgues for failing businesses are filled by errant fools.

******

If you're thinking you can change the world, you'd better think again.
For the cynics have been betting – and they're winning yet again.
If you venture into politics or you work in institutions,
You should leave behind your right-and-wrong and softer intuitions.

If you listen to your conscience and you do as it dictates,
You may find that you're the object of a multitude of hates.
If you're questioning a “verity” or asking for a reason,
You will surely be suspected then of lunacy or treason.

So be wary of the rebels who are questioning the flow.
To where rising ones are headed, you'd be smart to turn and go.
Leave resistance to the failures, who you'll see are losing ground.
Let reflection be for losers, as you win another round!

To your bosses, be compliant.  With your underlings, be stern.
You should undermine complainers – who will never, ever learn.
The ambition that is needed, if you're looking to succeed,
Should be fortified by ruthlessness – and a fair amount of greed.

****** 
 
For you're clearly not for labor in a factory or school.
As for slaving in an office –  you are surely not a fool.
You're not meant to die for duty in a distant, dirty war.
You were born to be a boss-man, who'll be chauffeured in a car.

So you'll learn to do the herding – and the hunting too, my friend.
And you'll learn from those who're herders – and who hunt until the end.
And you'll ally with the in-crowd, with the ones who're seeking power,
And you'll learn to lie and break the laws and watch the timid cower.

For the rules are there for workers and the lower rungs of bosses,
But they don't apply to owners.  We are ruled by profits, losses.
And a nation, such as ours, is in need of rule by those,
Who were meant to be the owners – and the roads to owning chose.

If you're looking for the power and the wealth, then you should know
That these things, from your own labor, you can never ever grow.
For the roads to wealth and power, they are built on workers' backs,
And the entrances are barred to him, who basic shrewdness lacks.

It's when your wealth is multiplied by all who work for you,
And your power too is magnified by all who're serving you,
It's then, by dint of rent and debt and wages that you pay,
That you'll get, with wits and ruthlessness, your money – and your way.

******

So I think that I shall leave you now to ponder if you're fitted
To clamber up the hierarchies and leave the rest outwitted.
It is heartening for elders, that a younger generation
Will be putting on the stirrups, so's to ride this glorious nation.

You have come to me from someone, who was really rather clever.
He had learned what I had taught him, while repeating hardly ever.
And he says that you are like him, and may even rise above.
If he's right (and I do trust him) then my labor is of love.

For I hope that you'll be smart enough to kill and have your dinner,
And you'll show, to those who're watching, what it means to be a winner.
So I'll gladly be your mentor, for it's rarely that I find,
In a person who is younger, such a cunning sort of mind.

But your quibbles, you should garbage, you should throw them in the trash,
Or you'll find that you are hobbled, or are even acting rash.
To be honest is for others – just be careful, don't be caught!
And you'll have your time for kindness – but there's battles to be fought.
   
2013 July 2nd, Fri.
Brooklyn
   

Encounter

Encounter
 
I met some souls, demented, yet alive,
Who rued their lives, misguided and misspent.
They asked, what lesson could a soul derive,
Except that all is naught, and made lament:

“How few, our moments, brief, of happiness,
How many, those of agony, despair...
In all save death, we've naught but diffidence,
And yet, we're born – to life and loving dare.”

I tried to tell a wanderer that I
Had aught to cherish in the life I'd lived.
He answered not, but with a baleful eye,
My own and so, my living soul, transfixed.

And as he stared into my self, I saw
That what I'd thought was precious now was turned
To worthless trifle.  All that I had built
With hope and labor was, to ashes, burned...

I screamed and wailed in horror and despair,
And heard their echoed voices join with me...
And all, I thought, had gone beyond repair,
Until I woke and light of dawn did see...

2013 July 3rd, Wed.
Brooklyn