In State Poem by John Weber

That mug could be etched onto coins
if only conscience failed to intercede
and money-changers picked their totems
with less attention to global schemes.
Funny how cold metal splatters all the
bravest brains looking to level out
opportunity based on skill rather than
birth.

They lie flowers upon another grave
to repel the notion that billions of free
minds would be better than sacrifice to
the gods of consumerism, trend and
all the noble platitudes of today's
abundant derivatives offering salvation
at the cost of tomorrow's beneficent
hope.

Already, they've begun to wither
without the purity of fluid pure in purpose
since husks lying in memorial always
convey the stench of potential destroyed
at the hands of plunderers convinced
of righteous manipulation like a
condescending slap to the
teeth.

Stern faces propel blasts skyward
as if I'm supposed to forget the arc
that sends those pellets, like my spirit,
propelling back to the Earth once
more in reverence for the ricochet
penance that pulls so pernicious
that every molecule feels unnecessarily
bound.