No flame is ever burning
It starts with a combustion
And blows into a stirring hot passion
But no matter how bright
Flame will always wither away into the unknown

Where has the flame gone?
One would ask
Why has the flame done this to me?
Another would scream
Why can't I even get flame in the first place?
Some will cry about

The answer is simple
Flame comes from a part combustible material
But that's only half the battle
It also needs to be exposed to an oxidizer and heat
And on top of that it needs to continue to be exposed to oxygen for oxidation
This can only be achieved through something called work

I’ve been a busboy, a waiter,
A salesman for road crews
A cook and a soda ****.
The American market is
Not set up that well for
Kids who want to work.
Before I was twenty five
I’d had eighty different jobs
Some of them at the same time.
Some parents think their kids
Are a good source of income.
Others think that is a crime.

I suppose it’s one thing
If the kid picks his own job;
Does what he wants with money.
But robbing his stash
When he is out working
Is not even close to being funny.
And keeping a youngster
Both working and schooling
And no social or playtime is sad.
It robs him of childhood
And rips off all his ambition.
The child has to somehow turn bad.

Maybe it only trusting
That the kid learns not to do.
Maybe that dreams don’t come true.
Maybe the kid learns
His hard work and dedication
Only gets him blisters when he’s through.
That was all true of me;
I did what I was told and
I learned that joy and accomplishment
Earned no praise for the doing
Only produced, if I didn’t work hard
A tremendous amount of admonishment.

So, when I left home
I had no direction in mind;
I looked ahead to sixty more years
Of working and being robbed
By people I wanted to trust
And not even being capable of tears.
This may sound like a whine
Blaming and much worse
A griper that’s totally out of line.
But what it really means
Is your kids aren’t your slaves
To be put to work in some coal mine.

It’s not often I relish the sun,
But did so,
Come one almond eye’d glance –
And “awkward.”

It’s not often I gaze, the stranger,
But did so,
Come the little silk doll, snoring –
Curled upon her back.

It’s not often I hate, putrid,
But did so,
Come man, come companion –
And the trash she’d burrowed.

It’s not often I speak, I only write,
But did so,
Witnessed smug, and a
A smoke, cradled poignant, “husband.”

It’s not often I blush, nor often I fold,
But did so –
Come a mother and son,
Climbing mountains, cursed, and trash.

It’s not often I scamper, tail tucked leg,
But did so –
Come her freckled red ménage,
And the man who’d snapped his fingers.

It’s often, and ought I point a finger,
But to did so –
Never knowing love, never knowing angst,
And never knowing them.

the invisible hand is in my pocket
pilfering everything
and there's nothing i can do
to stop it from robbing me blind

it does not guide it only destroys
personal expression under the
whims of an outmoded model of economics
capitalism
a philosophy that subscribes
to the metaphysical conclusion
that a spiritual malady
plagues every human heart
a harsh chorus that rings like a melody
of triumph in the multi-million dollar
mansions of the 1%

convinced we're born selfish
it seeks to reward us for our own malpractice
an edict predicated on social darwinism
that forestalls the possibility of future charity
as it drowns in the throes
of misanthropy and butchers any hope
of philanthropic community or basic humanity
to vanquish our more maleficent impulses

relegated to paying taxes
to ensure the illusion of security
while our money finances endless
war and police brutality rather than
healthcare or education
they know if they keep us sick and dumb
they can get away with ******

if the population shirks in horror
from the looming specter of terrorism
they can justify ubiquitous surveillance
that robs us of our right to
self-determination but
people should not be afraid of their governments
governments should be afraid of their people

they say we can't be trusted
that this is for our own good
but i'll call their bluff that
bull on Wall St. is full of ****
and like a matador i'll entice it to
lower its horns and charge
when itsjust a hairsbreadth away
i'll turn to one side and let it skewer
the slave-driver raising his whip behind me
that same skulking shadow that turns
veterans into homeless wanderers begging
for loose change in Central Park
a pale horse haunting the aspirations
of college students it
leaves the poor and
oppressed shivering after dark and
overburdens broken backs
god doesn't hold up the world
like Atlas we shoulder the globe

now watch us shift the weight

brought down by the people you tried to suppress
this is not some petty expression of vengeance
but the rallying cry of a dream deferred
exploding out to meet your injustice
mark my words

we're taking over the world

I left the scent of bleach
To the palms of my father
And disavowed his residence,
A rock atop, “Mount Redeye.”
Let him keep the – sore back,
Torn ankle and manic boss too.

In adamancy, I mention this,
Special sort of, “resolute,”
While sipping nectar
Blanketed ether
Come the first minute
I ought be somewhere else.

And it’s when our sun greets,
The, “guilt,” the, “grief,”
Or tomorrow’s, “acquiesce,”
That I’d taste an awkward
Twitch of, “failure,”
Unbecoming last night’s plum;

Something lesser than sweet,
And a torture at tip of tongue –
An existence’s, “respect,”
Fermented, “20 years,” overdue,
Come peak, the admission of
My unrelenting weakness.

And though I’d never really
Known, “Him,”
I knew what he did,
I did what he did,
And’d lasted only days,
Having worked if only hours.

I’d left jobs before; he couldn’t.
I’d walked before; he wouldn’t,
And how my sweet amnesia failed;
But rather, scarred; burnt sacred,
Blunt, and brim of soul, prior
Sobriety and when I wept, “Father.”