Get to work
you lazy slob,
join the line
find a job.
Abandon
all your dreams
supreme,
take one for
the capitalist team.
Busy busy
no time to think,
barely alive
for that 5 o'clock drink.
Idle hands
are the “devil's work”,
the laundry list
you can never shirk.
Shame on you
for wanting more,
your heart's desire
you must ignore.
You're so naive
you make me sick,
the boss is coming
look busy – quick!
So idealistic
you just don't know:
the economy
must continually grow.
And grow and grow
'til there's nothing left,
stealing from nature --
unaccountable theft.
What do you
suggest I do?
Become a cog
in the wrecking-crew?
Lend myself
to manic insanity?
Crush my spirit,
prop up profanity?
Do I put on a tie
as I slay the Earth?
In this business suit
I'll find my worth.
In a world
that is falling apart,
'not safe for work'
to bring my heart.
Your value is only
the money you make.
Rewarded conformity,
flatter the fake.
Artists, monks
the philosopher-type
historically known
for their trivial tripe.
The things they create
are novel and nice,
but the 'goods' they produce
are missing a price.
Because they are gifts
that come from the soul,
a renewable resource
an ancestral role.
MBA's
the serious folk,
snicker and snarl:
“this work is a joke.”
But where do they turn
when their heart starts to ache?
When their egos falter
more than they can take.
For some it's vice
to forget the pain,
but it won't nourish
it's all in vain.
We all need the mystics,
the dreamers,
the sweet,
to remember us home
to steady our feet.
Musicians and muses,
healers of all kind
reveal the absurdity
of hustle and grind.
Because nothing lovely
can be forced to bloom,
these colonial lies
leveraging our doom.
We must honor again
the things that don't fit,
surrender the spell
of muscle and grit.
Giving thanks to that
which has no name,
for granting this poem
for lighting my flame.
May my words find eyes
open to see,
so they'll know deep down:
“it's not just me.”
