Marty Shambles

the harrows of toil

now that the gnashings
of locomotion 
come to the terminus
of the continent—
now that the pacific’s
cold waves douse the
fires of the republic—
now that destiny is fully manifest,
and all the ruckus of
infinite growth comes
thrashing against a finite world,
there we find a fella
with his palm out,
asking for a dime. he,
like everyone else, is
selling something to 
survive. he’s selling
alleviation of guilt,
as the holy man does. 
a holy man
is a beggar with a 
compelling story:
promising eternal reward
for 10% of your earnings—
promising that you 
are a good person despite
what you do—
a holy guarantee that you 
are justified. 
a beggar has his bag of 
tricks too:
he has stories he can tell
and myths he can propagate
about the great western man
and his lurch into the american
century. he can say that there’s
a woman back in his hometown
that’s waiting on him to make good
on the promise of the century,
even though he knows that she’s
probably long ago moved onto
greener wallets. a girl’s gotta eat.
and yes the world wants him gone
but have you considered that he’s
bigger in heart than all the goons
on wall street combined and simply wasn’t
built for this economy? an economy
that requires lumpen destitution to function.
if it wasn’t him, it would be somebody
else, here with hand outstretched,
waiting for a dime.