Fighting the tide is nowhere
laws’ll not be changed.
Interests’t profit from exploitation
plow it back into an easier future
hiring callow silver-tongues
the talented beemer-seekers,
hired guns for brains: self-styled
realists at the hefty salaries
not available to forces based on charity.
They energize the push for more progress
dispute the exploitive charge;
buy TV air-time, full-page ads
and promote their carefully worded plan
using every trick known to debating man,
like gobblers, tell their big lies often
and oftener and often become the truth.
Why down me as defeatist,
life not spent sweeping waves?
Who says that life should be fair,
earth not be concrete-paved?
Life’s tempting dreams of heaven
conspire to break our heart.
We want it now and so we smart
in disillusionment and doubt
that this world isn’t ruled by clout,
(that we won’t die in an oven.)
Ghost dancers, shuffling through our scene,
feared no less than Wavoca’s,
in blood-spattered snow at Wounded Knee.
Who feel this planet is our lot
(and that no other can be got)
in faithless desperation,
in lonely self-sufficient-try,
(lives spent seeking martyr-ation)
condescendingly might view
thems’t dance like ghosts
in faith, but not impose
views or tactics.
Who cares that they might be destroyed
by acts of those who fear the void?
Copyright 11/30/94 J. Risdon