Here is a rant. It is the result of a conversation I overheard and could not stop from contributing to briefly, between my HP and his (our) brother-in-law:
No, A Rant:
Here is what I have to say to you, you deniers of art, what would you make of the world, then? Would you make a legion of automatons? Just groomed for destruction? What would your vision recommend but the suction of all bloodlines of the earth, could you just suggest the learning of monies and dry earth, what can you predict but the end? You who deny our handwork and weaving and art, in favor of, what, of what, you who excise beauty, what do you recommend for our souls, or do you now know of them, or have you none? Here, go ahead and rob the poets. Go ahead and rob of us of the words to describe your blank spending. Here, though, I might say I’m sorry for your lack of sunrises, of your lack of vocabulary to describe your windows, I pity you in your shortsightedness, You want anyone to capture your pain? Sorry, so sorry, you voted us out, you voted against it in favor of cars. You voted against expression and I have no sympathy for your blindness. Seek no sympathy here. Here there are workers in art bound with me, I know them and we will not be muted by your silent willingness, no, no, we grow louder in our art, and in our peace, louder in our resistance, to your stupid money. What do you know of the monsters piping in the wild canyons, shame on you for not knowing this art, shame one you for your sad pennies, shame on you for this carnival of wealth, I hope you feel shame for your loaded guns of judgments and gathering and killing pipeline eyes, against all this, what to we, the artists have, to but to watch and paint up in the line? What do we hope for, against your stupid money?
A rant is always good. Happy Wednesday, poemfriends. This one gets me fired up. At least I prevented myself from ranting against my in-laws.