poetry from 2008

Art has died
It starved to death in the 20th C. 

In its place—entertainment 

A novel, a song, 

These are measured by their Gross 

They are pawns of corporations 

The publisher, the recording industry

These giants have pimped beauty 

The middle class in its hunger

Consumes the whore 

And discards it like a spent condom 

Never once looking in its eyes 

Too busy with satiation 

Too eager to spend its money

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I stand at the foot of this hill as an accuser, 

Looking up into your tear streaked face. 

I see compassion in your eyes, 

And anger wells up inside me.

I doubt you and your abilities. 

I ask, is this payment enough? 

Is this act really justice for the 

Rwandas, Auschwitzes, and slavery ?

These are too big 

You couldn’t possibly be worth it all. 

So I stand here, not understanding, accusing.

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