I have respect
for those who beg on street corners
asking strangers for spare coins.
I consider them little Buddhas
with their outstretched hands
representing a rice bowl.
I’d gladly give
my last dollar
to one of these forgotten castoffs
before I’d throw
my lot in
with the high priests of this fallen world.
This poem originally appeared at Social Justice Poetry back in February of this year.
I think it basically speaks for itself, no? Raise the meek and disenfranchised on high while casting down that caste of dark occultists that currently conspires to bring hell upon the earth by weaving their spells of desolation and destruction from plush ivory towers down into the broken institutions of this world – be they governmental, educational, religious, economic, or especially the corporate media.
And that’s enough of all that for the moment, eh? I’m not really in the mood to fully delve into the subject of the dark priests. I’ve tackled certain aspects of the conversation in some of my essays that were written for The Daily Anarchist last year. Sweet Jesus, it really has been over a year since I was swimming in those political/social/economic waters. My mind has been so focused on poetry for the past eight or nine months, the thought of hammering out an essay seems bizarre and ungodly at the moment. But I’m sure that the need to spew a political screed will return one day soon. The urge to rant is strong in this one…it runs deeply in my veins, and can never be fully expunged from my heart.
Scott Thomas Outlar