Objectivism

I write what I see, what I feel, vibrations

in my world, observations

examined through my lens—

the bottom of a whiskey glass—

afternoon by afternoon and early evening by early evening,

calling a spade a fucking shovel regardless of class,

but let us not discuss that form of warfare (although it may be

time to reexamine the usefulness of

the guillotine

and sharpen the blade).

I wish to throw lines like spears

piercing the bubble of ignorance

created by the political dance and corporate stance

of clueless heartless capitalists, enabled by their 30-pieces-of-silver bought toadies,

who

don't realize that if, indeed, Atlas Shrugged,

the sky would fall,

on us

all.

My lens reveals

a wildfire out of control, burning the acreage of our heritage,

smoking our horizons, obscuring what lies ahead,

but we know. Don't we.