Class Ceiling

Huntsman turned to hunted,
gun to what the
disembodied tongue said
in place of bullets,
bang bang become
yeah yeah yeah, and we
wonder why peace
ain’t a stock you
can invest in.

even the
Dow Jones is talking shit.

It’s like throwing bricks at
plexiglass in hopes of shattering it,
that glass fucking ceiling

but it’s bulletproof, bitch,
and you’re just another tick in
notwithstanding walls,
designed to muffle everything we could
throw and then
the kitchen sink at it

(that’s why it’s appealing)

Don’t mean I think you shouldn’t simply
make a stink, drive ’em from
the room, spike their drink and
crinkle their suits; think going gluten-free
at forty warped your ideology some because
the half that ain’t thieves
are obsolete or easily
bought.

Either that, or you were born dumb, and I’m trying
not to go there
but you ain’t
off Scot-free.

Tattered red or
tainted blue, you give my mouth
a semi-automatic
speech,
my rhetoric,
revolt;
turn my tongue to loaded gun
to defend against drones patrolling
the Dream.

Jesus, it could’ve been
so different

(no, not really)

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