Therapy
A Line From Rimbaud (French Poet, 1854-1891)— or Tell the FBI, ‘Art’s Dead’
We can take it out on our wives, our teenage sons, the neighbor’s dog.
We can speed, get drunk, break glass, smoke three cigarettes in a row.
We can sabotage a machine; poke fun at a spineless boss.
But how does one confront a Battenberg, a Wagoner, a Miller, or Dick Dauch when,
They announce to the press on the nineteenth green they intend to cut thousands of jobs?
As if a job didn’t mean a husband, a father, a wife, a mother, a home, a family.
How does one confront the corporation that cuts retiree health care?
And demands wage cuts that condemn employees to a life of poverty?
Bottom feeders like Wilbur Ross who call bankruptcy success, trash pensions, and celebrate?
Or change company names and resurface making the same product for higher profit
And lower wages, no pensions, or health care for surviving spouses?
We won’t win at the bargaining table where negotiators on both sides all wear ties and play golf together.
We won’t win in court where judges dine elbow to elbow with donors who pay more per plate than we make in a week.
We can only win in the streets with hands and arms and legs and feet. We can’t win unless we beat the bastards senseless.
Then maybe we can talk sense. Then maybe they will listen. But first we have to teach them a lesson.
Arm yourselves to the teeth. Abandon the hideouts. Take the war to the streets.
Make the sons of bitches pay. We have nothing left to lose but our dignity.
“Now is the Time of the Assassins.”
—Soldiers Of Solidarity (SOS)