If you punch at the earth, you’ll eventually feel your bloody, battered hand.

If you slash at the heavens, you’ll soon tire, slow, and know its erratic winds.

Baby-Bosses need to be reminded they are here to serve humanity, for they bleed as we do.

They are not here to serve a brutal system, not some cosmic plan, not some aesthetic perfection,

Not their victimhood egos, their laziness or their wealthy owners selfish, erratic interests.

They are here to serve the poor and needy, the least of these, their workers,

Who can barely afford rent, food, work clothes or the luxury of a family.

We cannot be what we once were,

We cannot go where we’ve stepped before.

But as it has always been:

Those who cannot accept their own death,

Them who cannot take the breaking of their ego,

As this pinch point we live today demands,

Will violently force delusions of immortality,

And thus their own unresolved death,

To bear on themselves and others.

We are not meant to stay in one place so long,

We must die to idolatrous images of our old self,

Of an old culture that is killing us,

Of old expectations drowning us.

But in this moment of unfurling, my dear Baby-Bosses,

You’ll be better off dead if a change you can’t make in your head,

If a new way you cannot chart with your feet,

If better words you cannot sing encouragingly,

Or a sacrifice you cannot make for life’s renewal way.

On the other side of your frustrated moral ego, now falling dead,

Is a child’s charismatic ethic, playfully rising from its bitter stead.

Stand with your poor workers or simply look the other way,

But allow them space needed to fight the owner’s greed today.

Relinquish your guarding shield of them with many tiered walls and riches,

Find your sword of compassion, long rusted while toiling an owned common.

Don’t bend to personal apathy,

Never sway with empowering greed,

Through your own heart, mind and community be true,

But underneath be ever thoughtful, ever honest, ever mysteriously you. 

And for this gloomy future we all now expect and see,

If there is hope, we’ll find it together growing from within this fertile rot,

Sensing the wind on our face but not letting it blow us apart,

Morphing the water in our bodies but not breaking from human form,

Balancing the natural rhythms within to chart a good way to live outward,

And breathing the existential reality we dwell, so our pleasure may become whole.