~ poor folks aspire to the common ~ just out of reach ~ hunger & failure wear them down ~ they snarl at their children ~ quit bitching ~ you’re alive, aren’t you ~ the answer to that question ~ yes, the one deeper sadness ~ ready to go ~ never begun ~
We were born gathering stones, piling them into burlap bags, hefting the bags onto our backs, toiling up steep inclines past lilacs and hummingbirds to the tops of modern day pyramids where masons wait impatiently to place stones in the wall. Down we go through the streambed, dammed up and damned down, stone whistle, holding our water.
Our fathers before us knew the empirical weight of masters, hollow rewards and always the whip and the threat of the whip biting into flesh, mind and spirit. Now the masters’ masters’ children are the new royalty, their hands soft and born to wield the whip. We are dispatched to slay whomever they say and to be slain past fields of butterflies and katydids.
A man feels it happening that feeling, “I can’t lift the bag no more”. The sly ones carry half-bags, fooling themselves, “The bosses won’t notice”. The not-so-sly fall down, literally break under the load. Everybody knows what happens to the sly and the not-so-sly. You dig that damned hole, take a rock out of the bag, use a two-fisted grip, smash it into your face. Past the ant-lions and head-lice you fall yourself down. Your brothers and sons cover you up, sisters and daughters come weigh the night.
Read at Wikinut/Link: ~Come Weigh the Night~