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
down—
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,
in spell—
of polarities—dualities—
beacons—cadmium
contrition’s—
acting
out—
for
the veil of false pretense—
for
the guise of diction—
for
the holographic mark of time—
for
the itch turned untimely cue—
Fate
breathers,
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.
