Moloch in the Streets


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When I think of people, I see disappointed faces

Anticipating their futures like mindless birds

Preparing for the trip southward for shelter,

Their annual Winter endeavor in the sky,

Where the sky is a binding, limiting illusion

When the weather is at its coldest and driest,

And the routined are at their saddest.

 

People are forlorn and somber like goldfish

Stuck in a bowl of sink water, or muck,

Because the bowl is never cleaned or minded,

(No one bears to recognize its existence,

Let alone their shoddy conditions;)

And their fates entrapped in the images of

Glass slippers, crystal balls and TV screens.

 

Then the celebrities dance on the rooftops

Of cloud nine, with their untouchable glamor

And their angering, dissenting conceitedness

And in their hands lay the keys to good fortune,

Happiness, wealth, and the meaning of life,

But their route to success is paved in

Sunset Boulevard, which is hardly a triumph.

 

Therefore the CEOs and wealthy businessmen,

Who are political foils to the partying celebrities

But are in the end all the same, present their wealth

And swim in pools of golden coins and silver dollars,

Money that they earned from sales and investing,

The second route to success, yet Wall Street

Stands taller than the city surrounding it.

 

And although the Earth is large and boundless,

It seems a godforsaken, restricting prison-land;

While some view the bustling metropolises,

Burgeoning marketplaces, and capitalist regimes

As an attainable, reasonable paradise on Earth,

I fail to see the hamster leaving its cage,

Let alone the wheel that it spins on its own.

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