Far From The Clutches Poem by RIC BASTASA

i read it again
amazed by what you said

as you were saying
you write a note about a man that they put in prison

for being ideological
very unlike the masses that go to congress and adopt a dress code
and stick to the rules of speech

propriety, that is the main rule,
not justice, conformity not creativity,
contentment not exploration and so on and so forth

summed up with your
etcetera,

giving medical assistance is beyond ideology
the sick man deserves to be given his dose of medicine
whatever he is
he is the sick man and he needs help
why hinder the good samaritan
why ask for his ID?
his political belonging

i wonder where is this journey taking us?
to hell? where is it?

it is here.

but this is not the end of your story
neither mine shall end here,

i ask you to spell a word: atrocities
a word in plural form
which you pronounce so well by enunciating the
'o' in there

nothing is funny now
i stopped laughing since then
i buried my jokes

anticipating that soon we shall bury too
another body
of Jesus Christ, copycats are we and they
survive the mess

they still sit there and judge all of us
for we have not lived the way they envision society

yes people, monkeys still, monkeys eating monkeys,
cannibalism, and yet, what irony is there

they tell us that we are strange,
that we need a rehabilitation, to be put back within the four corners

of their universities, and oh, what a mess
funded by the people.

tell me how can i stop this
poetry of anguish?