Poem: Gold

Here is the second poem I read for the OWS in Maine film. It was originally published in Main Street Rag.

Thanks for reading,

Owl

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Gold

shiny ugly everything,
we toil and die for you,
beg and cheat,

you dwell on rich fingers,
and jewelry,
but mostly undergound,

locked where your lusters
never draw light—
inert seeds
of sterile pomes—

in bankers’ dungeons,
bolsters of parliments,
roots of popes.

we hoard tidbits and flecks.
children with bulging ribs
are worth far less
than your excellency—

you’re greed’s tit, after all,
or perhaps an incubus
making us crave—

as if Helen
had been raped by Midas,
golden with gore.


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