Unemployment
This morning's fantasy of wealth Shot down... A flight Of migratory geese That burnt the sky, Wing pulse of Wall Street. Flapping up to seek The durable good While object-fetishists Bagged all day like hustlers Against the wide-eyed land, Slouching against emporiums of delight, harvesting their Wealth. I reaped no answer. Night comes. Oil black and Smokestack grey. The fields are fenced. The hustler's satiation, good. Technology strides seeding Her rows of invention in Four-square universe. i, in my media-drawn days arc Through unemployment, Wing pulse of the earth. i, in my ache, down ache through the Pliocene of night In sinking flight From sky to bush. This morning's fantasy of dough, No go! Written December 26th, 2001 © on Dec 26 2001 08:30 AM PST, Carole Dudley 0 • 1
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"This morning's fantasy of wealth..."