knittingknots

All hail King Profit, chief god of the world right now. What cares him for the fate of humanity?  He is lord of wealth and greed and all that glitters, for these are the true things that satisfy his being. He hides behind the masks of pleasure and security, sometimes wearing the face of the Prince of Peace, sometimes the face of Democracy, or the face of Phobos, King Fear.  Sometimes he even hides behind the mask of Righteous Indignation, but these are all fronts in his grasping hand. In his never ending hunger, he is the cause of war, deprivation and untold  human suffering, who lies and tells people that resources are infinite in a finit

Pounding the nails deeper and deeper, every word of hate done in his name, every act of exclusion, every lie told to make the smugness feel good, every act of violence against the weak, the poor, the other, every chance mercy is abrogated. How they crucify him again as they scream like the crowds did at his trial rejecting the truths he told them. Lord, have mercy, for we have no mercy of our own.

Perhaps it is that we prefer the overlord's hand, the feudal structure, the noble telling us what to do, taking his toll from out sweat and blood, while we weave myths justifying this as blessed by Heaven. Over and over again we weave this pattern, bearing our burdens until the toll they take is just too heavy, and things explode or someone from the overlord's ranks breaks trust with the myth and tries a new thing that always, in the end reverts to the old patterns. Lather, rinse, repeat, lathered in our own grief, rinsed in our own tears, but still, but still, we return to repeat. Can we learn a new thing? Can we teach this old dog a new

Another year, another fear, another tear. See the lead fly the words lie the children cry - winding the noose that will hang us all a little tighter.

Farewell, all you golden ideas from the Enlightenment, concepts from the Renaissance, logic and light, science and the worth of the human. We never fully believed in you, and in our reaching, our greed and grasping, we have overstepped and now, with the dark clouds hanging over all, rising seas and storms we seem to prefer the old ways better - the tribe, the myth, and the plunge into intentioned  hatred in the name of purity, no matter what the outcome.

O beautiful for tear gas clouds, for helmeted police, for flash bang lights, and armored cars and smoke to keep the peace, Amerika, Amerika, King Profit bids you grace, Make money for the elite, please, or we'll beat you in the face.

King Profit's in his holy Temple (branch offices in banks and stock exchanges world wide) let all the rich count income before him count income (from stock, bonds, dividends, options, derivatives, bonuses) count income (from exploiting workers, lobbying for unfair rules, getting sweetheart deals from communities, breaking environmental laws) count income  (from paying as little taxes, finding tax havens and putting as little back into the community as possible) count income before him.

If you set your world aflame do not be surprised if the heat burns you do not be surprised at the sparks cascading at the smoke rising up in an angry column do not act shocked when you walk across a charred landscape or complain at the blackened earth, the ruined hillside the landslides the destruction. Oh you flame bearers, it doesn't matter why you set the fire, why you fanned the situation until it burst into a conflagration, God, justice, morality, greed, hate, when the flames rage out of control, even you will feel the heat.

Words, words, who has the words? flitting here, flitting there, silver voiced birds. Get back here! I want to spin you into a thread, Sound and image, blue green and red, Heroes and cowards, passion and fate, true love's first blooming, the conquest of hate - Words let me find you - don't run away, Now it's our time to come out and play

When our grandchildren prostate from heat and thirst and hunger sift through the bombed out burned out toxic sludge of our remains, scramble for the crumbs of our waste and profligate squandering, what tales will our children give them? Will they talk about about how we used fear and greed to create our own modern tower of Babel, and will they curse our name, curse our ghosts flittering across a ruined land, the new demons of our great-grandchildren's nightmares?