Union and Poverty

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Don’t Mourn, Organize!
And this is the motto, I live by. And while some wish to cry a tear in their beer for the labor movement. I left the tavern drunk, with clearer vision. And hypocrisy exists in everything we as a people do. Corruption at the top is troubling as hierarchies we humans create! Sometimes out of innocence and sometimes to over power the minority.

An Injury To One, Is An Injury To All
and I will never throw the baby out with the bath water, however, It seems to me, some labor to become too big for their britches! My job was to sing my heart out. And I did, and now I am sitting back, watching strategy and waiting out the storm. I am in it for the long haul, slogans and rhetoric mean nothing when two piece suits take the place of jeans and bandanas.

A Fair Day’s Wage, For A Fair Day’s Work 
is the slogan of incrementalists. The words of those who partner with the machine! Now we are at war with terror. Slaves of many an industry that own our governments – tied us to a global supply chain that is wrecking our waters, land, minds and bodies.

Too Radical!
I have been called out of bounds as heartfelt suffering all about cedes to power. A big picture haunts stares into a new bright morning. Once i let that weigh heavy on my spirit. Utopian labels thrown all around as we are asked to pray it all away, wait for cities of gold and kisses from a heavenly father, while children play games with endtime themes, exposed to all sorts of enticement.

So …
to my friends in the movements, let this be my letter tacked onto the door of the labor temple. Right? But let us not stop there, I have been to the mountaintop. And yes, this may be that I told you so moment, but Don’t Mourn, Organize. There are too many working on the same issues, expecting us at the bottom to show up, to, too many of your parties.

And …
like that guy, who wrote the letters to the churches, he was a reformer who paid the piper. So was Thoreau, and so it goes for Vonnegut, and all our people who saw an injustice and sought to expose, muckrake, agitate. Look up a ton of Sinclair! There is no need to reinvent the wheel! We’re gonna roll the union on, sang my hero. Woody to Joe Hill! When faced with death, Joe said, “ready, aim, fire.” like Jesus said, forgive them dad, they know not what they do. They were martyred in the mythical by and by.

So therefore be it resolved …
I do not mean to make this all about me! This is universal … I am just the workhorse of the Animal Farm. The moral of the story! A Sitting Bull, waiting for a brighter day! Just us like many who come to these shores … yet, native in sympathetic resonance. Solidarity Forever like Sacagawea, like York, like a Wovoka. Dancing around a narrative like a trailblazer for you to someday discover!

And further …
If you really need a hint, like a ghost dancing away from this American Life, like a TED talking head speaking in Direct Action! Ask me about Black Elk! Ask me questions! I am spinning in circles like Rumi. My songs tell the story! I am blacklisted, like John Henry, red baited and already dyed in the wool! Ready to break them shears and the windows too. I live to set fire to Foster’s Mill.

“Siri, what’s a luddite?”


On the corner of Bardstown Road and Grinstead, I see people flying cardboard signs. Sometimes all four corners are taken by people in need of something. I don’t judge. The day my front tooth fell out, my cap in need of care, I, out of pocket, a single payer, paid money borrowed from my sister. Last week, twice, money came in for me. I was broke! Down to my last dime. I let go and let whatever you want to call it work as it may.

On the off ramp from I-64 daily, I see people flying cardboard signs. Who knows their story, really? I do not judge. I left a good job in the city because that job was killing my soul. We choose to lose to gain freedom in return. And I worry!  Worry about my son and his health. I worry about mine. Most of us are one paycheck away from failure. I worry about my loving partner and her darkness. It takes a worried man to sing, a worried song in sickness and in health.

On the street, before Derby, a whole line of homeless people were living under the expressway, living in filth, Shining Like The Sun! They were removed. Some jailed! But they will be back. Some of them probably are mentally ill. But who is to say? I understand why some choose to not participate in this unreasonable economy of decadent and depraved want. I do not judge! I do worry that we will always have the poor with us. I worry that hate and violence are a disease. I wonder who cares, really?

And poverty is as poverty does. I was raised at times in what some would label as broke. I sought help from the church, the government and family. I got a job and then quit! I was institutionalized and then bounced up from a darkness that engulfed my life. I do not judge! Mental illness can strike at anytime … sometimes as fast as a spring thunderstorm or as fast as railroad cars coming off the rail. Sometimes, I don’t feel like working on Maggie’s Farm no mo! Either!

I am poor now, and happy! Worried yes. I have friends whom I can trust, family if need be. Some people do not have any of that! Some are so alone that they die. Some choose to quit this obnoxious theft … so called society, global economy and local investment. Some see right through the green community, sustainable rhetoric liken the rose colored glasses of institutionalized dreamers. I do not judge! I am worried. Worried enuf to care. Sometimes so worried …

I can’t look to read the signs.

I already know what they say.

And do not judge!
You could be me
and I could be You!

4th plaquea


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