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My Own Democracy

It has hit

home.  No not some


faraway land.  People are dying

outside my window. 


Yet I sing, to you

in here.  No not from some


radical point of view, just me

and my


yellow legal pad, and the knowledge

that we are not safe.  Easy for one to see now


the beneficiaries

of our


                              But there’s a bird outside my window,


popular disenchantment, and the byzantine system

which creates it, like a child


afraid to ask for more.  We have been shamed

into a freedom that thinks


deductibles are a natural part

of health insurance –                                       that thinks


some men deserve our silence

while others


our moral superiority –                                   that thinks

paid sick leave


is too much to ask –                                        that thinks



is a crime, and a prison system – the largest

in the history


of the world –                                                  that thinks

the planet, like democracy, is not ours


to save.  Too faraway.  Well here we are.  We have quashed

the latest



movement, in favor of


                              telling me to love


adulting.  Our individualized



is flailing, struggling

to account


for everybody.  I open my window

and let


the socialist winds

blow over


                              even when we disagree, to fly,


the blinking lights

of our capitalist landscape,


its hills and valleys, its beauty –

but suddenly cold to pandering,


                              even when we bleed, and she’s tellin’ me


wizened to the truth –

its hollow veins,


deep cracks in the open roads

and commitments of trees


                              it’s mine.



Posted 04/27/20
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