Mother, we castrate you in our pursuit

by pounding bells to dictate our march,

no mercy is know in the stiff pounding rhythm

pumping furiously to silence your heartthrob

and to produce, conquer, and consume.

Blinded humanity whose suffering is hidden in the plastic.

 

The black and white are lines that divide

            cast off the tethers that bind you to I

            no grey can be said and no love can be had

            between the hours of nine and five.

 

This is no place for poetry.

The toil does not begot the beauty of the line,

nor does it shine in splendor in the hollowed eyes

            of the assembly line.

Its honesty is not wanted,

Its knowledge is not needed,

No, the bell that tolls denies

Free thought and an open mind.

 

Mother, we stampede.

Cross the rivers and demolish the forests

Over our poor and our elders

            we take our pound of flesh from your shoulder,

Cattle driven to be fodder.

 

These times are ours not predestined

            and we not aborted from you.

We are not isolated as cogs in the machine

Cranking out little pieces of desire.

We are,

with you,

our mother, yet:

Our souls bought and sold by the dollar,

Our time sold at auction to the lowest bidder,

Our children raised to believe that happiness

            is traded in the Wall Street Journal.