The sheep gaze upwards in wonder
at bloodless cattle deposited on neighboring land.
Ranchers curse their losses,
yet nothing slows the flow of patties.
We have more money and guns and cars and trucks
and busty blondes
than all the envious world.
We may be livestock, unknowing our role.
We may be huddled masses, happy in our stadiums.
We are not sheep.
On the asphalt, stone, and dirt roads of Rome,
Lima, Mumbai, and Tangiers,
We stand as a glittery example of high life.
In our reality, there is no gold to sweep from our streets.
We stand as a temple of avarice.
Here, the bold and bad can grab a stack.
Here, Ponzi can be a millionaire again.
Here, the law applies not – until it does.
Loopholes and angles and dodges feed our books.
We are predator, not prey.
We are the mites on the fleas on the backs of ticks.
We are sucking at the heart of the world
as we drive, bumper-to-bumper, to watch rich men
running in circles.
The worst habit for which you may blame sheep
is their appetite for roots,
which must have evolved for a reason.
– Stark R.M.