Slew foot polygon—a gross manipulator
one in the same—as facts—details—skew the page
for all the ins and outs—
for all the feral symmetry—
for all the finite skills suppressed—
for all the jungle operations hunkered
So deep, that vacuous well—
forever locked—up, down, side x side—
jaw draped—from the random parallels—
between awe—and the every word spoken against,
for the veil of false pretense—
for the guise of diction—
for the holographic mark of time—
for the itch turned untimely cue—
henchmen to the idle ones—
content to float through belligerencies—
within broken vessels— meant for
toys, not for man
But who should cast such blame?
Is it he who skips the perfect stone?
Is it she, wielding such a silvered tongue?
or perhaps, it’s just those that need not sweat
yet are still the ones who always get?
the everyman sitting there—
on hands, on knees—trying to find
whatever comes naturally—trying to discover
whatever may come to mind?
—anything, something, anything please—
but what can be done?
but what else is there to do—
when we are many and they are few?
until the skies shift and the tides can turn
we cannot protect against the subsets spurn
when voices meet but never blend
and until they do and we can
it seems the facts remain the same
that Everyman doesn’t stand a chance
As conditions can’t change
until one voice is heard
as progress can’t begin
until Everyman gathers ears
and states its case
The history of mankind is overrun with tales of ordinary men and women fighting the odds and climbing out from the deepest and darkest of pits. The precedents are right there in the record books, it has been done and can be done again.