SHARP IRON

Well, the holidays are here and I thought it might be appropriate to share this poem with everyone.

It’s by our friend, Ric Booth . His poem’s not pretty, but it’s very convicting and not too comforting. At least it made me squirm a bit.

The Chronic Ills of More

Posted on November 21, 2008 by ric booth

the alarm goes off
religiously.
every day.
playing the preferred show.
on the xm receiver.
loud.
as it happened, they were playing
that song about sex. or lies. or money.
whatever.
it is his favorite hymn.
he enjoys quiet time in the morning.
letting the loud take him.
to the hymn closing reaching
to turn off the alarm.
the next rides in on
the waves of the closing
notes intermingle
he recognizes the melody
about sex. or lies. or money.
it is his favorite hymn.
he turns it up.

He wants more.

climbing into the day
he smiles.
He knows.
it is friday. payday.
his motion triggers a switch
sending alternating current
to the ambient lighting
custom designed to him.
his employer’s financial institution’s
outsourced data center operations
group located in a another world,
where work is scarce
and wage is optional,
begins the payroll run
as he steps into his white washroom.
the run calculates his drain on the employer.
and his tithes and gifts to
the sponsored social programs,
the health programs,
the retirement programs.
the national defense
the international offense
all the obligatory charities.
the institution’s institution’s institution’s
computer faithfully gives his first 30% to his favorite
ministries, as he brushes his teeth.

the white washroom mirrors an image
of his favorite him
playing alone in his mind
as he tightens his new silk tie,
handcrafted by slaves,
his financial institution casts the net transaction.
smiling at the deal on the silk
tightening around his neck
as debtors begin their withdrawals
his coffee maker drips
a perfect cup of his favorite bean,
picked by illiterate children,
as he walks into the kitchen.

sipping from the commuter mug
his bank account is drained of
transient funds
he never sees
the children
or the slaves
before he arrives at the office
his cup is empty

He wants more.

sitting in a cube,
the hum of the a.c. and florescents
lull him into something passing for work
as he processes pixel arrangements

He wants more

escape from the trappings
of this vacuous wealth
long forgotten,
he sits back in his lazy-boy,
his favorite pew,
to watch his favorite
late night preacher
read from cue cards
about how much more he needs

He wants more…
so much more…
for this man.