Conveyor Belt Woes

Run, walk, move, the conveyor belt keeps you going,

the travelator pushes us along until we’re pushing daisies;

to conform and put yourself last is to “be strong”

as we trudge along around the black an yellow tarred lines

while looking at our rectangular mind magnets, our attention – occupied,

worrying too much about these crazy times instead of the curvature of our spines.

Factory errors are laughed at, pointed out by the products

because to not be ‘in line’ is to be ‘out of order,’

how free are we if we still have to be like the bees

of a hive that work until our wings no longer flutter?

The puppet masters at the top reference a utopian time and place

that seems long gone, but never actually existed,

and the average Joe from yesteryear

would probably be more appalled than proud of how much

the oligarchs have chipped away from the working class –

basic needs are a privilege, our principles have been twisted.

People locked out of basic shelter are dying,

spikes installed to keep them off polished windows and away from old money limestone walls,

Instead of humans helping humans we have a space race exploding off the blocks,

top 10 money hoarders trying to be like “I’ma head out,” hopping from penthouse to cockpit,

Union-busting tech barons don’t mind leaving the earth sweltering, melted, and barren.

Jump off the conveyor belt – life is more than just numbers and industry –

we’re not just the products, we’re the power that electrifies this grand machine.

Look around, look toward the future, and don’t forget to remember suppressed history. – RSM

Classism, Apparent

(Written October 2016)

I see it everywhere. No, really, like, everywhere.

Just like heat evaporates hot water, a heated discussion between any two strangers always comes down to money.

The bigger the bag you carry to work, the lower of a class you belong to.

The way you get to work, the way you’re dressed, puts the haves and have nots on display

We’re all a part of it, this ugly, pyramidal structure that we see every working day.

I’m so desensitized to homeless people wasting away, little by little, right in front of me, but what do I do? Keep my gaze forward, and keep moving, ’cause ‘I got work to do.’

We all have a place to be, to show up by a certain time, and drive the money up for someone else, higher up;

Profits trickle down, sure, but by the time the fresh bounty of ‘profits’ travel to the lowest level,

the paupers have to hang on tight to their earnings while the white-suited man a top the watch tower sips on his gin and mutters under his breath ‘those degenerates need to get it together.’

This is a capitalist’s world, where money is god, and the more ‘god’ you have, the more of a god you are. – RSM

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