These hands
have toiled,
sweating, rough
and bleeding.
This furnace,
my body, striving
onward, in
day’s searing
heat-
desiring
collapse.
Stiff, brittle
claws, frozen-
these
hands.
Mind,
body,
spirit-
slowed, by
fatigue,
numbing pain.
Siphoned, by
parasitic quotas.
Besieged, by
ruthless taskmasters,
until, day’s
end.
Resting-
from
the labor,
of
the
day.
I am as solid as stone.
To feel and cry
makes me no less.
I am stronger
with each tear,
with each fear.
I am the hydra.
I am your anchor,
the earth beneath your feet.
I am strong, and
I can be weak, but
that’s what makes me strong.
I can be weak.
I allow it.
I encourage it.
I shout from rooftops,
“I am weak and vulnerable!”
and
I am strong.
For I am human.
And to me,
my humanity is more powerful than stone.
Stronger than steel I am.
And so,
are you.
The Strings,
are as titanium bonds.
The Masters
manipulate and feed.
Who are the Masters?
And who erected the cages?
Who holds the keys?
Shackles for the mind…
Chains for the id.
The Ego is restrained and s e d a t e d.
The Masters who Control the thoughts.
The Media?
The Government?
Those “enemies” over “there?”
Once,
they worked to do all this, and more.
Who are the Masters now?
Well my friends,
The work still goes on,
harder than before.
Day and Night.
Open 24 Hours.
You do See, don’t you?
Perhaps not.
assume nothing.
The Puppeteers,
They,
Them,
Are
Us…
She asked about you,
you heard the words.
I told her about you,
and she said
I had a friend like that
once.
I destroyed my friend
because of labels.
I let them win
for a time.
I don’t speak the words,
they do not sound pretty,
they are not nice, cute, snuggly
and wrapped,
in shiny plastic.
I silenced that part of me.
She must still speak,
she is one of us,
speaking and writing on the pages
of her body.
Expressive eyes,
smiling,
telling
me.
Listen,
listen to me.
I won’t be silenced
easily.
She spoke to me.
I listened.
I understood.
I told her,
asked her,
hoped, desired
and,
pleaded for her to,
pick up the pen,
the brush,
continue.
Allow yourself to speak.
And to my delight,
and perhaps,
my arrogance.
I believe she will.
Four-Calendar Café 