We are Steeped in the Absurdity and Horror of Tragic Irony

 Once upon a time, I wrote poetry. Well, it lived somewhere between poetry and prose and that's exactly where someone like me has always lived, in the in-between, in the liminal spaces of life.

Anyway, I've been working on this piece for some months now and it's time I push it into the light:

We are Steeped in the Absurdity and Horror of Tragic Irony

I am 45 years old;
I’m exhausted.

Exhausted by being told what to care about and not care about
decade after decade after decade
by people who you and I have nothing in common with,
people so out of touch that they couldn’t tell you
what a gallon of gas
or a carton of eggs
or a damn BANANA costs
and we’re gonna let them tell US how to feel?

Yet still they sit on their thrones of power in ivory towers
playing ping pong with America,
batting her back and forth
and back and forth
and back and forth
decade after decade after nauseous decade,
as We the People cling to that ball,
the ride never ending,
as the ivory tower people convince you to pick a team,
their team, the Right Team,
as if any of them are on OUR team,
as if they’d every be on any side but their own. 

So we pick teams,
one o' the Big Two
(the illusion of choice)
and both teams ride that same ping pong ball back and forth
year after year after year,
after year,
and our team owners,
who’ve convinced us that WE chose THEM,
(oh please) 
scream ad nauseum that THOSE other people,
the other team,
the people riding alongside us,
My Fellow Citizens,
who are all clinging to the spinning ball,
(help)
that those other people
THOSE people
hate US.
who ME? couldn't be.

And so we MUST fear more hate more fight more
more more more more
to grab and cling and guard
just an inch of the plastic,
while the powerful on their thrones in their towers
laugh and laugh and laugh and laugh
as they do nothing to help us,
for why would they?
(well duh)

So they razzle dazzle and
LOOK OVER THERE!
and convince you and you and you and you too
that you could one day be them
if only your bootstraps were made of tougher stuff
if only your mettle were more precious 

So dark this con?
That's the game, SON!

This is all by their design
it lines their platinum pockets
and so they’re happy to kill us all,
poison us
shoot us
let us perish due to lack of
everything,
no matter who can or will vote for them or not,
(the illusion of choice)
because they own each and every last one of us
(do you hear the people sing?)
and will squeeze every last labor hour
and bottom dollar
and they’ll keep going until they have every last penny
and we’re all buried or ash.

So yes
I’m tired.
So tired.
Stop worshipping the puppet master
and clip our strings!

Get off the ball.