Started up in Safe Mode Feels like another day, if you say so Same sights, same smell, same payload Bright and early, home sweet CAFO Another day where your employer just cannot resist reminding you they need you like a pay phone. That you’re the lowest labor cost that ever crossed the payroll So Medicate your self-defeating dayglo Scroll a dozen other lives and take notes Take a load off, take a quiz or two, fuck it, stay home. Your porn star name is the last thing you ate And your ATM code Mine is a sigil, eternally vigil, the shape of a ward to preserve us and aid in our darkest of days, The Ages Of Bezos. When Applebee’s sweetens the pot on your 5th round booster shots with a free small Queso Another day where you wager it all on a game called: “Fuck me, where’d my apes go?” Were they Right-click-saved, Or Lost in the woods on the way to a lab and a lifetime of product testing for Proctor & Gamble? And while I don’t mean to ramble, I’m barely disturbing the surface of what you could call the preamble Prepping the table where all of the rich will be seasoned and split, their legacies stripped, and the towers from which they would pelt us with shit will be toppled and trampled. Drug through the mud to the bramble All pleas ignored, and the screams all cleared for samples. And flipped to The rallying cry of a turning of tides, A working class YOU forged, and YOU galvanized through a lifetime of beating them flat on the anvil And I’m just one man, But I’ll do what I can, from my circle of candles A synchronized laying of hands on the handles of studio doors where mass media vandals all butcher the truth to contort into angles that groom you into the most useful of fools that you practically drool to see Raytheon marking a nation it seeks to dismantle Your Porn Star Name is the day you last ate, and the word that first pops in your brain when describing the taste of Police Boots, and Bezos’s sandals. And it can be the brand-new code word for anything you don’t want heard Cause you’re trying to keep your YouTube channel So go touch grass, baby, shout it from the rooftops, Carve it on the trunk of the tree of mana. The Revolution won’t be televised, but it will be felt in every soul like they’re electrified, by the power struggle rippling to life like a working-class Arcana Load up every cannon, we will firebomb the history books, and decimate the annals Write in bold, unerring word, “the peasants won the battle” Get it through your talking heads tell ‘em that we canceled all their panels. Tell ‘em that they’ll have to find some honest work, there no longer lives the kind of power They were here to serve We’ll no longer give up half an hour every night so we can placidly acknowledge things are getting worse Then bury our intentions in the sand, antennae first. We’ll no longer feed our children raw into the senate’s maw, and all to slake the market’s thirst We’ll no longer be their hapless tributes for the darkest curse, All to feed a power that was summoned up by Bilderberg Wait a sec, my heart just got a bit excited, or a clot dislodged or burst, I’m not sure if that would be the best-case-scenario, but, truth be told, it’s not the worst. Your porn star name, can be honest, or exotic, or mundane, or it can be the brand name stitched on the velvet inner-lining of a donor’s purse. They’ll trade you just the same, honey, profit is the dice, and the pieces, and the prize, and the name of the game. Christ, Money is the motor nerve! And they don’t really NEED yours, everybody knows they’ve got their own reserves. It’s not ABOUT money, it’s all so they can feel a little power surge. When they see their machinations on display, their silence fades, they want to shout it bright as day, that they end lives and they break ground just to proudly say they shape a global future they’ve trilaterally deemed essential, equitable, pure, and business-sound. It’s ALL so they can feel a little power surge. Shit, I bet they laughed and jerked it when the towers burned. Your porn star name adorns a very shallow grave But your one TRUE name will be clear a thousand years from now, when this is just a town of ferns When All the apes are gone, and the Overgrowth is blooming off of every surface, filling every view, no matter how you turn. Lush, and ever Gentle while admonishing a creature that just never learns. Your name is an evergreen echo in a town of ferns. And you don’t have a phone to check, Just healthy breaths, and rolling crests of verdant surf Immerse yourself and drown the urge in patient earth. When all the apes are gone, there’s only us to purge. Your name is “That which never learns”

If you fool me once, it’s cause I didn’t think a guard was needed If you fool me twice, it’s cause I didn’t learn the lesson, so it bears repeating. If you try the same play three times running, it’s because you know what’s coming, and you didn’t come to lead, you came to purposefully be misleading. Democracy is dry it spent a century bleeding the husk is gaping open to the sky out in the field where all the sheep just keep on circling and worrying, and bleating Waiting for the Shepard that they’ve tried to hide their faith in, but he’s SO appealing They gladly give their fleece, it’s such a freeing feeling that, even when he leads them to the ledge, and starts to urge them on, they’re positively beaming They were told that they were on their way to save democracy, so even as they plummet, they just gloat, they don’t consider screaming. And, halfway up the cliff, the shepherds cozy little mittens wrap around the staff of shattered human hopes, on which he’s leaning. He shows the gentle grin that used to stir your inner spark and he says “Not Me, US” as he gestures to the Oligarchs He knows that, if he runs, they’re gonna stop him like a stolen car and he’ll easily surrender, cause it bought a lot of time for laying mines in all the grassroots Suddenly the tiniest of movements gets you blown apart. Suddenly, you’re in a play, that’s set on an Election Day and voting for the fire unaware you’re playing Joan Of Arc. Suddenly, the Shepard pulls the rug, and slips a hood across your clueless mug, and everything goes Zero-Dark. I’m gonna warn you once more before it’s 2024, and you fuck around and find out who your heroes are. Take a step back from the herd, and you’ll learn that you can spot who all the shearers are. If you really wanna know the product that they’re selling, I can take you where the mirrors are. If you think your voice is finally ready, I can tell you where the lyrics are I hid them in a box I had to bury neath the cobble when they carpet bombed the promenade, and raided all the street bazaars Now, all we got’s the Marketplace, and you’re too broke to even bother asking what the options for your treatment are. Suddenly the raw debris of homeless human dignity will find it has a hundred teeth for every badge and sweepers arm Suddenly they speak in solidarity, and each is armed. Suddenly, the sheep can see the shepherd for his truest form, and all pitch in at once to help him buy the farm. Now it’s zero dark, and all is calm and peaceful, save the distant wail of sirens that approach beside the flames of dawn Suddenly, the carrot’s just a string that’s on a stick, and all your movements make you sick, because the prize is gone. Now, we could go and flee into the forest, low and meek, or we can exercise our right to feast and go and graze on Biden’s lawn. Cause he’s been sewing seeds that seep a toxin out to sap a bit from each of us and keep on leeching decades after Biden’s gone So, regardless who they summon out of hell to come and do the job, it will not feel like Biden’s gone But in that time of hopelessness, you CANNOT trust The Shepherd when he, once again, comes asking you to humor him his Siren’s Song Cute that you can innocently, honestly assume that’s just a symptom of a system that was wired wrong. Not the standard feature, basic function, primary objective of a mass-hypnosis fire bomb. You don’t need to know the words to cry along Some day it’ll hit you like an officer who pistol whipped their ride-along Broke his jaw, and kept his job, and kept it moving right along: Voting isn’t red or blue or black or white, or right or wrong, Voting’s like a firing squad where you can choose the firearm It’s slow-extinction, by and large, It’s super-Tuesday, supercharged, It’s all your futures, Roots and all, just tossed out on a garbage barge It’s everybody dropping out to push the biggest Oligarch. It’s everybody voting “Fire” Registered as Joan Of Arc.

Give me two and twenty, Humor me my humble talents, Let me weep a little bit too openly for those we’re leaving hungry, hanging in the balance Hanging, lifeless, in the eagles talons Wrapped in lines, a dozen times around their local food drives, just to find they’re only serving heaps of Mayo Pete up by the gallon With a hearty double-scoop of Biden’s Word Salad. Cause Joe’s prepared a couple words, (in no specific order) to commemorate imaginary victories, and it must be a taste that you acquire from the Democratic Palate Cause I find nothing pleasing, sweet, nourishing, or valid. But here comes Jordon Chariton and all his stunted clones to take that tired Democratic tune, and put it to the music of a patriotic ballad Something that inspires you to cough up 20 bucks, and vote for four more years of civil servants telling you you’re greedy cause you didn’t cream your jeans to see their flaccid, snail-paced climate action. Sorry I was not impressed enough to go line up to have my turn to chug directly from the liberal vat of brunch relaxants. Sorry I still have a scrap of morals, so I couldn’t sleep at night to know I led the working class into the slaughterhouse through promise of a greener pasture Actually, I take it back, I’m NEVER sorry; I would rather eat my fucking tongue than write a WORD that served those greedy bastards. I guess that the fundamental difference in what all too often passes as a Journalist is just how swiftly some will seek to satisfy their masters And by “Some”, I mean the only ones they tell you truly matter I mean the only ones they don’t outright erase, or bury under peals of laughter I mean the only ones who speak a truth that we may not embrace until we’re in too deep to hope escaping our disaster I mean the ones who seek to break the spell, and try to name the casters Who shouldn’t need remind you they have numbers, and addresses, and are, each of them, disgustingly deserving of the kind of mortal fear the roar of riot brings and blesses with conviction like a pastor We didn’t start the fire, but we came to fan the downfall faster Give me two and twenty, I’ll be sharp, and quick, and funny, then I’ll scream myself bloody when you play that fucker backwards! All the world’s a stage, and the theater’s belching flames, but, really, what’s more entertaining than a playhouse full of lively actors? Smoke gets in your eyes like a diversion tactic, Tacitly you lapse a little, lax your guard, and last thing you’ll remember is your faction being fractured and dismembered into fractions, flecks, and fragments. Last thing you’ll remember is an ugly dream of fascists filling every fucking cabinet The last thing you’ll remember is the travesty that Amnesty’s Assange support was just this side of abstinence The last thing you’ll remember as a member of an audience that never pays attention, is the overwhelming feeling that, regardless, you’re all captive in the ‘Captured’ sense. So none of you can notice if the words that you hear spoken don’t match up to what the caption says. In the end, the greatest Coup was folks like Jordan using you Til you think Revolution’s waiting just beneath the surface of the tar pit that our Democratic Status is. In the end, the sound of all these propagandists buzzing, from their hottest, steaming takes, to imperialist sweet nothings will all metastasize into a static cyst And once you see the obfuscation calcified before you, you might look at it a moment, and think: “How could we let that EXIST?” “How could we have struggled just to breathe beneath the weight of all this cancer bearing down on us, and all we did was scream “Resist!”? Nonetheless, the Warmonger Queen persists. She’s reducing men in global power to a simple list: Who can keep a pedophile’s secret, versus who might need a little help to slow their lips Who might need a visit in their cell so there’s no risk that when they take the stand, they magically remember every trip they took to little st. James, or every place they ever shook Podesta’s hand. Who among us knows how many times our flag has flown above the stage where a molester stands? Only Clinton’s shadow knows. Only Clinton’s fixer, prolly bitter still from Navarone Only Clinton’s cult who worship Blackrock cause they HAVE a home. Give me two and twenty, I’ll produce them each a catacomb. I’m aware, in doing so, I roll the dice, so each might be the final time I walk inside and tell my son that Daddy’s home Give me two and twenty, I can eulogize myself and still have plenty left to shred on Ken, and Jordan, Cenk and Geoff, and Bernie, Nina, Nancy, AOC, & Chuck & Joe & TYT and every Twitter Toddler who assumes that makes me GOP Won’t see me sing on bigger streams, I’ll snap your platform right in two Just give me two and twenty, here’s the worst that I could do.

Hello somebody desperate Hello somebody gullible Hello anyone left who can swallow the bait, who ain’t already rocking a stomach full Maybe they knew, and they ate it the same, cause there’s no other way to assure that their stomach’s full Maybe they just know that they love the taste, so they’ll put it away by the shovelful So hello to somebody trying to feed us the Light Blue shit, like it tastes any different, or makes any Democrat any less culpable Hello to someone who couldn’t be troubled to mention a march for the Healthcare struggle, and spent the day cozy with donors who MATTER, who keep your progressives all wealthy and comfortable I recommend your protests be anything but peaceable, And all your disobedience be decidedly UNcivil You don’t need a permit to declare that you have principles, And, love, it’s only natural that seeing all these fascist assholes stacking up the capital would manifest in something loud, and passionate, and visceral. Keep it in your heart, cause it’s the only way we’ll ever start to flesh out something livable. Maybe that was literal. Maybe our utopia is built from all the sinews of the moderates and liberals Salvaged when they broke their backs with NPR gymnastics, simultaneously hiding from the truth, while sticking out their necks for Pedophiles, Nazis, and the upper-fucking-echelon of World War Criminals. But, babydoll, it’s not your fault, it’s really all subliminal. They’ve sewn the propaganda into every thread of visuals Grown the propaganda off of truly noisome victuals Rows of propaganda propagated out of ritual, Straight into your ocular, and straight out your occipital Straight up to the point you flip on everything that’s pivotal Any crucial aspect of survival for the middle class, becomes the holy unicorn you ridicule and snicker at, and praise each piece of legislature dancing round the borders of the looking glass. It’s not truly possible to try and stop the suffering of people that you spend each waking moment simply looking past Walking past a sobbing homeless family like: “Look at that!” “Bet they’d be in better shape if they’d have voted Democrat” Hello, Somebody ignorant enough to still believe that there’s some fundamental difference in the moral stance between the couple barrels that they’re staring at. Like one’s just got a slug, the other’s loaded up with sarin gas Both of them are pointed at your temple, and they’re both equipped to make this breath your final gasp Hello somebody dense enough to split the hairs of which one is the kinder executioner with what will be their final task.

If it’s ‘Death To America’, I’ll gladly pen the obit For the global gods of terror who controlled the world like Covid Prone to quickly flip their holy shit with zero notice. All you’ll hear is the explosion And when you flee to safety you’ll be blocked by close to 50 cops whose radios don’t seem to function Trigger fingers glued to their assumptions Trigger fingers sworn that they’ll uphold a code of bigotry that Biden signed in blood before the annual police union luncheon Trigger fingers all too proud to punch in Trigger fingers all too quick to end a life with no investigation, or discussion Safe to say deescalation isn’t any interest since it isn’t something they can stick their new, expensive guns in. It isn’t something they can taze, intimidate, or rape, so they don’t really see it fitting in their current surging budget And we all know anyone elected wouldn’t dare to dream to touch it Hell, they jump at any chance they find to fund it They get a little giddy when they pump the numbers up and push us closer to our future as an open-air dungeon Dragging chains of raw corruption So if it’s ‘Death To America’, I’ll wager that the cause of death was part Consumerism, part Consumption And I’ll bet it was administered by wealthy, suited worms, who excrete the viscous slime of the immoral and the unctuous, and slap a coat on every crack in this collapsing structure like they’re doing us a favor, and not lathering their cancer on the future that they stuck you with. And they’re banking on the promise that a lot of us will be so close to starving, that we wouldn’t look twice before we stomach it Hunger’s not a motivator, Hunger is the hunter that you rummage through the rubble with Hunger is the capsule that they fill with all their finely powdered policies and stuff you with And now, here comes the Democratic voter base to shame you for not telling them you’re grateful and that they’re the lesser evil you’d prefer to starve and suffer with. You could be another Warren voter pumping brakes on living wages cause you’re coasting on the victory of the suffragettes Wait a half a century, and then we’ll have a dialogue that starts the conversation of a closed-door debate on the merits of a means-tested temporary wage increase of seven cents Out beyond the shifting sands, and over the electric fence Bloody revolution is the truest form of Self defense Where every last dissenting word was taken in as evidence Our hope for the future roars to life to cries of “revenant” So when it’s ‘Death To America’, I’ll reach for the accelerant I will pen the obit, and be anything but penitent I will pound the pulpit, and be everything but reverent. Cum my fucking brains out So hard, it makes me celibate. Then Stream it straight into your home, Or closed circuit televis’ I know it’s not appropriate, or warranted, or relevant, but I’m just being honest and acknowledging the elephant Before I pop the hinges on my jaw, and relish every minute swallowing it whole, to the delight of its constituents. I’ll tell them that they’re free to live their lives without it’s influence Tell them that the donkey’s next to go, so they should know there’s gonna be another incident They should know that we will prove to be our own deliverance. They should know the kinship of the living is invincible and limitless They should know that anger is a way for hope to bloom, and not a way that hope diminishes. So if it’s Death To America, I’ll gladly pen the obit, but I’ll probably never finish it. I’ll add a line for every day we venture further out from where the capitalists settled down and shat out all their legacy and lineage I’ll add a line for every time UnitedHealth was fine to tell another human being that their bottom line was heavily prioritized above the dollar-value they’ve decided their desire to keep living is. Now, Raise your hand if you refuse to eat the truth that this is all that living is. Raise your hand if you’re prepared to tell your representatives the future of the working class is vastly more important than their insulated living is. Raise your hand if you believe your legislators don’t possess the faintest fucking inkling what the honest cost of living is. Raise your hand if you feel like you can’t afford to truly know what living is.

It feels like every other day is Kent State And we’re the people watching from the safety of the gate Muttering repeatedly “We’re gonna be okay.” Little did we know our fate was forged, and on its way Little did we know our last names were on a collar with a binary chain Little did we know they’re only working through the ‘A’s So at most, we’ve got a couple days Of Listening to all those precious freedoms fade away Watching all your neighbors learn in real-time how they never really had them anyway Watching as we occupy ourselves And you can try to occupy yourself, but eventually you’re gonna have to reckon the embarrassment of seeing that the terrorists were speaking perfect English, and they look just like yourselves And you could smell a power-trip distinctly American. You could hear the hate in their voices so well. You recognized the boots when they pressed into your face, and the sweet, familiar taste of the composite shell And suddenly, the film decides to pause itself. Suddenly the animals that wither in your cage would sooner claw themselves. Suddenly we start to see a fascist is a fascist and it doesn’t fucking matter what they call themselves. Suddenly we start to see their colors are irrelevant Suddenly the film is turning black and white and all the red and blue feels just as far away and long ago as civil rights & Suddenly it’s Groundhog Day on the Kent State firing line and you’re a student holding up a picket sign You’re the dying breed before a generation born with all its senses in the sand unless it’s dinnertime A generation undereducated in the hopes that their capacity for questioning their station might be minimized A generation dancing to the same song Witnessed by a Million eyes A generation struggling to save itself when all our means to aid ourselves were weaponized Poverty was branded on our skin, and we were tazed or made to step aside. Kettled into gutters and the ruling class is laughing as they pass us by A ruling class of warped perverted sadists so empowered by our CAPITALIST SYSTEM, their humanity’s impossible to recognize. So fattened off our taxes and our blood and our misfortune that they’ll never die They’ll be comfy somewhere else that Bezos terraformed and colonized when Earth is sunken under waves of human refuse and we all get left behind, terrified Our first mistake was standing by and watching human suffering incentivized The last of our mistakes was probably painted on a sign at Kent State that never made it past the censors eyes Shouted down to ashes under angry crowds of Semper Fi When it’s on your block, your only option might be frozen to the spot and truly petrified Like you heard the first shot at Kent State and it went through your sign And right into somebody’s side And we’ll all go down in history as police-assisted suicides Tell the founding fathers that we sing the songs of Patricide Chanted out in triplicate Unanimously ratified And we’ll all go down in history as police-assisted suicides

Blue check better hold your breath I’ll slap you out your Ray-Bans Toe to toe we’ll doe-si-do and dip until you face plant If you want statistics I can spit em up like rain man Now your argument has zero arms and legs Like Rayman Now we’re touring 2019 like it was Graceland I Dropped 50 pounds and started dressing like a stagehand Quarantine was born, and I restored my former waistband Now I make the trailers for our future in the wasteland Back on my bullshit Back at my heaviest Here to grab the artifact and jam it in the edifice Force it in the orifice, absorb the sordid medicine All the good cops are either dead, or quickly jettisoned No, I’m not a nihilist, and no, I’m not a pessimist I’m just your average realist With a fetish for the precipice Bend you over this abyss, I want to make you sweat a bit, I’ll drop you once it registers And know that you’ll remember it Daughters of the Revolution Soon may lose their membership Maybe through a dissolution Maybe through dismemberment I won’t be the one to choose, Or execute the severance, But Stand in solidarity with every tool that severs it Every crimson pool we made of every fascist fool who watched us sacrifice our schools to fund the final crowning jewel affixed in Lockheed Martin’s Diadem What’s another 20 dead, Our leaders lever cried for them. They’re laughing in the garden, drunk, and pissing on the hyacinths. The Royal Jubilee to praise this fascist Biden monarchy is imminent and it would not be possible without the constant slaughtering of innocents. Overseas, and, here at home, and anywhere we find a shred of innocence. We won’t stand for Peace, not in the global, or the “inner” sense We won’t let a single nation live outside our prison fence We’ll provide the bullets that defaced an honest journalist and turn around to praise ourselves for fearlessly upholding the free press and their important service But I’ll make a bet that Antony starts Blinken awfully nervous when you ask him why Assange is being jailed without a purpose For what may be the greatest, most courageous act of journalism carried out in earnest All to be rewarded with a a slo-mo execution stretching out across a decade Until they commute his sentence Half an hour after he goes in the furnace. Sometimes I think the world is only turning out of spite, it’s like we died a long time ago, and we’re so used to being burned, that when we saw the light, we all assumed that it was here to burn us. And so we fled into the shelter of a flooded circus Led to higher ground by all the clowns who own the only raft that floats above the sewage And, yes, there’s plenty room, but they insist we don’t deserve it. They insist the system works, they know it isn’t perfect. But say we can’t let Great become the enemy of Good or all these rolling waves of shit we call democracy and bled out every dime for won’t be worth it. But, I submit this joke of an American Experiment has not been worth a fraction of a damn since we birthed it I submit that all our contributions to the planet, when subtracting our destruction, and the millions we left dead and labeled ‘Damages’ would leave us with a failing grade of “Worthless” My apologies to any Blue Checks who might be listening, I’m sure that made you clutch your pearls and thousand-dollar purses Did I interrupt your fantasy of healthcare exclusivity, replete with fleets of Tesla hearses? Or your daily round of golf-claps to pacify our broken nurses? I know my spoken word is like the scalpel of a surgeon Who is working on behalf of the insurgents, but I’m just here to open up your eyes So you can see the true reality, and not your censored, tailored version. You can get your copy of my brand new manifesto, i took all my calls for violence, made it danceable, and, Presto, called it ‘Communism: Taylor’s Version’ Called it ‘Tales Of The Great American High-Speed Rail Aversion’ Called it ‘How To Put A Bigot Into Power Then Collectively, And Feebly Coerce Him Into Acting Like A Decent Person’ This will be the most important vote you’ll ever cast, because we have to wrestle power from the current ruling class, and hand it over to the other team of smiling, suited serpents. This will be the most important vote you’ll ever cast, now watch them toss it in the vat, and see it melt into the surface.

Influencer tik tok Capitalist pig dog Immigration flip-flop Lobbied via rimjob Met Gala Airstrike, A-Lister scrimshaw Paparazzi lips sip the scandal as it drips off You know, I’d Love to meet our leaders that were tipped off Back when Covid was a few of us with wicked coughs And be like: “Sorry, Mr. Senator, that you don’t speak in terms of human worth, just in kickbacks and dipped stocks” Then punch that motherfucker like a shift clock Hurry back home to my stack of straw dolls with their limbs off Biden’s on the screen, and he’s confusing Xi & Kim-Jong Talking out his Sim Card, Like someone plugged him in wrong But then, we hit the gist, and suddenly, his pitch drops He whispers right at camera one with his fist balled His words hang with the subtlety of a lynch mob He says “Rat your neighbor out, and get a 5-dollar voucher for the CIA gift shop” Hell, you’ll even get a free stick of boot-flavored lip balm. Every day, we make enough consent to fill a strip mall So When I say “eat the rich” I’m talking, Still raw Bone-in limb by greedy limb with a skill saw Picture, if you will, A modern take on ‘Naked Prey’, starring Bill Maher Picture misery deeper than a reach in Biden’s pill jar. You pull a fistful out and down it, honey, here we are. The future’s full o’ shit, and clear enough to know we’re better veering off, and fleeing far Somewhere Jeff will never think to look, beyond the fading stars Beyond the homeless camps they came and swept for the parade of stars Who showed their faces proudly, while we covered ours Met Gala Butcher Block We Feed the hungry And we Tax the filthy rich until they fucking starve Poke the hornets nest enough, eventually, it comes apart Eventually I’ll run my course, and numb my art I’ll snuff the little embers out and clean my car Wait it out enough, and then my sample bank will seem bizarre Just Foreign clips of fuzzy inspirations that I’ve washed away, or smoked beneath a half a dozen years of char Until I’ve long forgotten the familiar buzz of pressure in my ears when it’s just me alone with thoughts of drones, Boston dogs, Blackrock homes, and Women wearing Maiden’s garb The times, When, privately, I wondered if we’d ever shake these chains of ours when every vote for lesser evil yields another toxic barb, A pox on your democracy, A swelling in your child’s heart Before the time to educate ourselves is gone, and suddenly our trial starts. Those among you capable of standing, please rise, wipe the crocodile tears from your landlords eyes before the trial starts. All rise, and the trial starts.

I found a half dollar in a dresser drawer Spent the time I would have spent Just staring at the floor staring down at JFK Trying to imagine the immoral sort of irony that makes a nation feign commemoration of a man that it had murdered by the CIA Trying to envision us if we possessed the healthcare he had talked about in ‘58 I guess the takeaway is it’s a piece of fucking cake to celebrate somebody’s bravery once you’ve assured they’re safely in the grave I bet if Pat Tillman were alive today, that he would say the same I’m sure we’re in for more if they let Julian decay I bet that they would put him on a quarter I bet that they would name conference rooms in his honor at the IMF, The New York Times, The FBI, and Citibank I guess the takeaway is it’s a no-risk softball-pitch to uplift somebody’s image once their image is the one thing that remains And the worst is when it’s coming from a figurehead who’s funding every agency that authored the remains And working with the agency that doctored the remains The agency that obfuscates the facts and spins a constant storm of shifting blame I guess the takeaway is that America will sing your praises loud as day to celebrate the fact you and the threat you posed have passed away Shit, They’ll throw you a parade And business just as usual will live another day And all of the insurance gods will bathe in all the praise, and make donations rain And all their winged, wicked little lobbyists will blow their horns, and light the flames The ceremony starts, and they, In single column, march, up to the weathered onyx arch and sand the marker down that bears your name So you no longer are, and never were, until your hideous rebirth within the corporate frame Until you’re back from the dead, and then bound for all eternity in propaganda’s chains It’s the very ritual that whittled down the legacy of Martin Luther King into a parable on unity for liberals to claim And once they learned it worked, the world would never be the same And now, it’s getting worse, I guess they’re dialing in their aim History’s a straight line, but so’s a moving train which is heavily dependent on our infrastructure grade We are building back better in a nation built on slaves, so you can guess the ultimate direction that our pathway to the future paves They don’t want you living, or they’d offer you a living wage They don’t want you feeding any homeless, it’s just best to leave ‘em freezing in the alleyway They don’t want you speaking words of hope unto the hopeless, or they’ll do you up like JFK Found a half a dollar in my dresser, and I spent the rest Of my whole day depressed because this constant drop in pressure means that you can catch the bends from simply sitting up in bed, awake It looks like 2022 is really not the year for you to have your lives improved, I guess you’ll have to wait. But, not to fret, Election season’s just around the bend, why don’t you go ahead and save the date? So you can throw yourself Before the magistrate And beg to have your family saved? You don’t know the people you elect to lead you, more than what their ad portrays You can’t tell their offerings of saccharine and arsenic from ordinary aspartame You can’t really comprehend the kind of greed this country feeds upon until you’re Jackie O, wearing close to half a brain And probably the half that would have seen us passing M4A All to keep the pieces in their places in the never-ending profit game All to weave a tapestry of ampersands each allow a claim adjuster room to just dismiss you with a callous hand Like “Fuck you and your meds” “Fuck you for requesting a procedure that you need so you can stand” “Fuck you and your family, and your poor demands” Welcome to the land where we’ll assassinate a man, and then put him on a half dollar, stadium, or stamp, and proclaim ourselves the greatest country ever master-planned. Killing off its citizens, Enriching all its brands - Jesse Jett - - 2/4/2022 -