We, born free to die,
born to serve the
market, make meat
out of your soul.
Perhaps we prefer
this ignorance. Monotone
suffering, invisible
crushing weight.
History plagues
us.
How fast can you
run, how far
before you stumble
out of breath
and history's hounds catch up,
returning you to
your economic prison?
Them fuckers got it
figured, drown you
in mortgaged loan
debt or crush
you under
sidewalks and a chalk outline of
the american dream. Foreclose
your life, forfeit
your rights for the bills
stacking up,
amend your accounts, render them
deficient. We
prefer this train of meat
pulling into the station,
that cable channel
that is easier than
poking holes in your arms.
Being a media junkie, that
is obviously more acceptable.
Freedom of speech, that
be the opiate
needle numbing
all opinions milky clouded
and we OD on confusion
but think we're getting high.
Democracy
can be like that.
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