The Poor

Who are the poor? It depends
who is defining the abstruse lot
that continually grows
no end, all children
of an absentee god.

new dog

Centollella is dead.  The poor poet reduced into shreds
the mutilated book under the couch.  I should have but did not
have heart to punish the guilty, the dog
who also tore limb of bag, face of slippers 
belly of the couch.  Such threat this canine

having survived a world unimaginable at the downtown parking lot
given to me by two German women, foster parents themselves
of local street dogs, breed I've never had before.

A different how in loving I am yet to know
this little dog who bites in play and affection
who eats her meals with the lived memory of starvation
who curls herself in sleep, little feral in fetal position.

cape town

if you come to visit a city, do so not as a tourist.  
else there will be many things you will miss.  

the tourist is always asked to see
the many beautiful things,  

of course he is also asked to see
the beautiful only.

atlas shrugged

"The man who said he would stop the motor of the world and did."  The line I remember of Ayn Rand's book.  Made me pick it up and wade through the yellowed and water-stained volume.

Somehow:  it made sense why an assembly-line worker for cars cannot have a car; why the Man with the Idea can have it all.  

Because the Idea ripples, and blooms.  The Idea is the seed, from which grows the tree, from where many can reap.  So that is why capitalism appears to be utopia.

But we are on capitalism now.  And on the fringes, there, the impoverished; in the hidden fringes, there, the sweat shops.

Where is John Galt now?