I win my bread One day at a time The stock market At the grocer In the unemployment line
I work my tail to a nub Rub it in and rub it off The grunt work is a mindset The leveling never comes
What if the roles were switched You the mom and me the dad What if you had to stitch What if I took jobs you had?
What would that look like? Me as a man? As masculine as I am. Would I scratch my ball for hours Remotes dangling from my hands? Or would I insist on mowing the lawn When it’s hair is only inches Would I huff and puff and eat raw meat While you were doing dishes?
What if I wasn’t allowed to feel All of my emotions? Instead of wavering, hovering, floating I’d only be one of four things Happy or sad, angry or mad We don’t get any choices Put in our boxes Closed up with tape We can’t make any noises
Stop inconveniencing my time with your whines You’ve had enough time to do too many tries You should be farther You have the stuff You should have gotten the degrees Buffed yourself up to snuff
So why does it feel like I’m being forced To a trough I left, practically divorced?
Do I want to go there Is the water still drinkable? Or is it filled with stuff unthinkable? Rotting maggots, fruiting flies Once in corporate my soul might die.
Or will it flourish while the others I nourish? Can I share my learnings to help with earnings? Will I speak out loud but not too proud On how we can lift the system’s shroud The covering of flaws, the medical errors My curiosity spooks with cares
I want to see more of that world To fly the wall, to tree the squirrels. I need smore time No marshmallows required If you think I’m wrong Just say, “You’re fired.” I’ll go back to my hole, I’ll ignite my fancies I’ll make it worthwhile, I’ll learn new dancies But please don’t make me present the metrics My head is pounding and I’ve got no hat tricks.
I pick her up, put her in my lap, and kiss her as if we’ve been separated for weeks, months, ages of time. She licks my face as I smoosh her paws together like an oatmeal cream pie. I scratch the heart-shaped white patch that grows in between her sleek, smooth coat – dark as coal and soft as velvet.
As we continue our snuggles, she seems to get softer, turning into a pad of melted butter that slides from one side of my cradled arms to the other. Her curious brown eyes stare deep into mine as if she sees another universe – a better one. A more hopeful one.
I wonder if dictators have puppies.
I wonder if they hug them.
I wonder if they let them kiss their faces, sleep in their beds, or snuggle with them whenever they pass them in the house.
Instead, do they mandate their time outside of the crate? Do they sequester their sleep to a separate space so they can glean from the power they have over the critter? Do they pride themselves if their dog can sit still while a squirrel passes? Do they leash them and take them everywhere, and upon returning home to the kingdom of lies, do they announce their tallies of faults and lash them with their justice?
Thank you, owner. May I have another?
I wonder what they define as love.
I cuddle with my kids every day. My youngest comes to me in the morning during my sacred writing sessions, knowing she can snag a spot next to my left hip in the crevices of the couch and layers of quilts. She sucks her thumb and watches the words form on the screen while my brain warms and writes faster from her presence. My oldest slides down the stairs and announces her love for me and the child in my pregnant belly while we all place strong wishes into the world that this baby makes it to fruition.
I wonder if dictators love their babies.
I wonder if they wrestle with them and kiss their temples and cheekbones as if it could be the last time until someone whips out their right to bear arms in a school while they are learning how to read and write.
I wonder if they let the children poke their sharp, dictator faces, touch their noses, squeeze their lips, and open up their eyelids while they fake being asleep, all to spark curiosity about the human body. I wonder if they offer them the platform to be themselves, to live the childhood most likely stolen or hidden away from them when they were in their youth.
Or do they instead engrain them with fear of making mistakes? Do they pound senseless remarks of hate and stereotypes in their heads, making them believe they are the elite, the best of the best, the cream of the crop? Do they reiterate that hard work will get them everywhere unlike the rest of those fools out there who just take, take, take? Do they replace hugs with hard lessons of privilege? Do they disguise preaching hate as didactic on how to be a winner? Do they scorn failure and teach them to crave power like sugar cookies?
I wonder what fuels their heart.
I revel at nature everyday. I smile at trees and suck in air near pines and flowers. I try to get a daily walk in while I think out my story plots, exercise my furry children, and play I Spy with my human children. We pass by the same tree each day, but somehow it looks different every time. I remark to the kids how beautiful the mountains look while we drive to a museum or library, and they comment on how blue the sky is, how awesome the clouds look, or how breathtaking the color of the sunrise is that morning.
I wonder if a dictator marvels at landscape. I wonder if they relish in the hues of a particular painted cloud or breathe in crisp, clean mountain air when traveling to a city to gain more votes. Do they notice it all? Do they give thanks to Mother Nature for her empowering characteristics?
Or instead do they scope out the next place to rip out Mother’s uterus without her input? Do they focus on sniffing out a new plot of land for their next corporation? Do they calculate how much it would cost to take down the forest to get another shopping center or bank in place? Do they shake their heads at the amount of undocumented immigrants shaping up the landscape in a housing community, or do they think to themselves “We must be paying them too much,” while they pocket the difference for fear their riches could dissipate to less then seven zeroes.
Most of your friends know of their names. Others say they are privates or shames. But I know they serve an important purpose, so much so that we do them a disservice by hiding them in the drawers and closets, just come out and say them, the names of the four “its.”
There’s the butt, the penis, vagina, and boobs. The gang’s all there and the humor is lewd. They mostly go by safe names people dub them when they discuss the stuff that’s going to outlive them.
Why must we muffle these beautiful creatures? They are as much a part of our features as the face, the shoulders, the tip-top of the skull, but they can be misused and abused, made hurtful.
Some people start with a female part, but then they flip and a male they start. A they or a them, a he or a she, it doesn’t quite matter who you’re meant to be as long as you love and are kind to your peers, for no one should dictate life’s cheers, jeers, and fears.
Others remain A woman or man and love their own kind and stick with their clan. Man crushes on guy, lady treasures a gal, you do you, don’t get caught in the trowel of hate, hypocrisy, bias, and mean; to try and understand is the best way to glean.
So if you can find a safe place to spill your guts, your feels, your flailing free will, keep these in the back, unless needed to hack, the code of life, which could bring you strife.
You might use these tools, to ward off fools, or to keep your cools, or to spin your spools, but whatever you do, don’t use them to drool. Take great care, preserve them like jewels.
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