Artisan by Dan Joyce
What is government if it is not of the people? The pauper? The proletariat? Who reigns tribulation, who destines in his mind, who builds and creates with his hands, never to be mistaken… Who tears the strings of the capital puppet master… Who makes art to live within his means… Who is born and dies and is reborn again. Who is he, the poet? Who fights the bullied earth, the circus, the playground, the satellite earth. Tell me truly peaceful ones what troubles we have made. Fighting war, brutality, politics and cult religion. We’re buried in our graves. The graves we’ve dug, the graves we’ve made. Who is she, companionship that holds a deeper truth? Tell me once and loved and lost so many times before, filthy as a whore, dance the dance of come and go and still we dance once more. Tell me Mr. Government how even is the score? How evil deeds of evil men settle this again. Who is she my sacrifice, my heartbeat born again? Am I the fool to break the rules and waltz with love again? I do not care who mother loves; looks, money, Catholic ways. I am just a painter and settled in my way. My music stands before me… my palette without grey. I am a colored inspiration. To God, I am a slave. Tell me more Ms. Mystery the woman I adore. Speak to me my destiny. Bring spirit every shore. Who am I my mirror man that’s more than just alone? I am the dream romantic sleeping in my home. And now I hear the feminist talking in her sleep. The revolution communist pensive oh so deep… whisper as I weep… tainting as I dream… flooding fascination… sleep… sleep… sleep
What good is that a genius? A genius without ethics? the ethics of the dollar? Who is he to sink his brother in greed? Who is he to clarify, to justify, to starve those of need. In that is his power a power that is greed. How I can kill my brother, how I can bury his cloak, how far in such denial and denial is defense. That love is not among him, that love he is without, that jealousy of virtue breeds racism and hate. Who is he my brother, who kills in Christ’s name, who buries all his victims in his pathological game. Is it murder a sin? When taking such a man? And how easy to defame, the disgust of his name? Awkward odd and ill mannered, he lives alone in bitter soil like a worm that feeds on the dead. Where is this morality, the morality of hate, the moral of the dollar that casts into disgrace. That works and works and works the mother that works her into pain. That feeds and feeds and feeds the greedy the greedy in God’s name. That justifies the racist that sacrifices the lame. Who his he my brother? Why must I bear his name?