Statistics don’t lie, people do.
jimmy.mankind@gmail.com

The upper 300 families of the world own more assets, property, and cash reserves than the lower 3 billion...
Would you fight in a war to maintain this and what would you die for? American interests? Who would you kill? Who would you die for?
Someone who has capitalized and monetized all the people of the world, the world itself, it’s rivers shorelines forests prairies deserts mountains ice caps and oceans and all the life upon it, or the people who live humbly?

Madame DuFarge is knitting, knitting, knitting, knitting…still.

I say hang them all, take the assets, and give them to the poorest people to distribute. Build free lifelong educational systems, free clinics, free med schools, free clean water supplies, wind and solar powered electrical systems, recycling sewage systems as if we are on a rocket ship shooting through space for eternity, which we are…and start at the bottom—one begins at the worst—we begin in Haiti, then Africa.
The wealth torn from the rich like taking an egg from a yegg, and reassembled as an omelet of commonwealth plans. Then it shall be allowed to bubble up through the masses, curing whatever material aid can cure, of its own accord. Reducing their stressful lives of worry. The rich will receive their just deserts…we’ll supply them with the minimum requirements for a useful life…so they may live stress-free also.
We won’t need rich folk nor jargon barons to give us jobs: we are our own destination.
We’ll be the stronger ones, because we are not fighting for ourselves.
The mother of all class wars is coming, but it’s not going to be as you might suspect, not right/left, nor rich/poor. But it will be the unmitigated attack by the Undead Past upon the Unborn Future.
J. Gould’s awful quote [“I do not fear labor at all. I have enough money to pay half of the poor to kill the other half.”] will die in the forest of empathy we shall establish with nurture and care.
I love colors, but I miss them for long whiles. I see the world—during those periods in black and white. Occasionally, comes a bluebird flying through my reverie, she’ll land on my shoulder trying to sing. And,
Coughing in my ear, It’s a hard job, she’ll sing. But it sure would be easier if we were the dictators.
Gee, I thought the wee were.
Whatever happened to the dictatorship of the people?
Whatever happened to the meek?
We’d be nicer than the rich.
But then again, the article said: American self-esteem runs rampant! College students’ inflated egos signal future relationship troubles. More narcissistic and self-centered than their predator prodecessors….
What?!
More self-centered than the “Greatest Generation?”
No way!
Way!
It only shows so, because we need more now. Because we were promised more now—and we’re getting less.
And we’re beginning to see even that drifting away on some melting ice flow. Our predator predecessors were supposed to have designed a magic and universal future of good luck for everyone! It should be in effect by now. They told us. No. They insisted…, that they could construct a perfectly fair and balanced world by way of pure selfishness and greed…and now they tell us by way of a miserably, blatantly obvious self-serving excuse that they will create goodness after doing the following evils for just a little while longer: war, followed by austerity (for the poor and soon to be poor), starvation in foreign realms, real politik imperialism, privatized water, air and education…real means royal in Spanish.
Like bank robbers in the movies deciding to do just one more job, you just know this one ain’t gonna work.
So instead we’ve moved in with our parents again (which ain’t so bad in a evolved sort of inter-generational mental health kinda sense.
Even tho’…we’ve been taught:
We are supposed to have too much and we can see that no one else will ever have enough if they attempt to even have this much and they hate us for our freedoms… so we have to continue to steal from them and kill their leaders, and put new leaders loyal to our royals over this Other and kill their babies by our powerful ignorance and neglect and the pain we sell them along the way to centuries of childhood leukemia caused by radioactive un-depleted uranium…and it’s so depressing to be a part of this…so…
We eat because we are depressed.
We diet because we eat and drink and shop to dress up because we are depressed
We shop until, in our obesity, POP.
We pop out our credit cards
—our eyes bigger than both our stomachs and our backs—
as we pop out of our clothes.


A zillion choices of pills:
We got more pills to choose from than ¾ of the planet has choices of food.
They eat the same things every day.
We fuck because we are depressed.
Hate yourself?
Got sex?
We make love to escape depression so much we turn love into sex and sex into depression.
We find out sex cannot carry this load of psychosis
and guilty nepenthes
and transcend us from our relentless quotidian doses of banality.
To be hot
Is to be objectified: oh, what satisfaction.
Well at least they love me for my body!
Who am I?
Ohhhh…fuck me fuck me fuck me….
Make it go awaaay…
People on TV show us how to be important, objectified of course, and therefore “real.”
They wave their hands and jump about. They wiggle and giggle and jiggle and talk too much that they become hard to watch.
Too cute, too nervy. Too perky, too pesty, too irritating.
Like sound pollution.
Impossible to like, our TV heros keep getting invited back. And they
make money!
With their frenetic tics and puerile shouting.
Imagine them at home: the squawking at the dinner table.
Extreme gesturing.
Their kids. Pitching in.
The pace blistering.
[DAD, I’m leaving NOW! I’m walking out. I’m so gone from here.
“My Son,” the moms go, “Why have you forsaken me?”
Gimme the car DAD! Or I’ll go up to my room and take X!
Oh son, he breaths a sighthe size of a mosquito’s sigh.
You’ll take ex-stasi anyway.
Dad, I want it now!
Okaaaay, says mom. “Just make it stop!”]
What’s wrong with the subtle self-esteem of a walking date? Biking?
Meet me at the shake shop.
Walking and fucking don’t mix.
Big shot chicks don’t walk to get fucked. They need 1000 thread count sheets and short skirts in big cars and potent pills that make them go all Krakatoa and shit.
Teen-age preggers makes for how many movies a year and this year’s presidential race dropout?
Themovies reflect us, deflect us, neglect our spirits.
They shoot for the dick.
And hit the commode.
[Except for the Indies.]
Shit jokes are making a comeback.
Ever since “The Aristocraps.”
Shit-throwing is a cretin-us joke.
Quality stirs up the shit in your brain, not on the screen.
We need to see ourselves more clearly, but we are afraid to look.
So we abuse each other—self loathing being the root cause of abuse is still no cause for abuse.
In the mirror darkness preceeds light.
It’s always there waiting.
So we look at movies…at speed we cannot do, at violence we aren’t allowed (unless we make ourselves vulnerable to reciprocation and come back home
too scared to cross the street) and at shit we do not dare to throw....
Don’t tread on me.
Of course our movies show us as crude, rude, violent, pent up, fed up, scary
Hostile/gynecological.
America is a depressing priapic.
In seach of a fellow or female sheeple, dawg!
A peep-hole.
Made hole. In that sense united.
A steeple, made blighted, by self-helping be-nighted
Pseudo-macho racists…and greedy older than old school old fascists.
Even from here I can smell their crusty, old Glory Hole:
GAWD!

What a place for a poet.

jimmy.mankind@gmail.com
© 10-2011