Lice (The 10 Plagues Pt. II)

Watch the sun finish its affair
Against a landscape of two-legged ants and concrete towers
And an economy in a wheelchair.
Be aware of the pavements and alleys you pass through
What grunts and groans and laughs and fuckyous
For they paint the details we care to overlook
For the crap we whine about and the chocolate gold we treasure.
In a backdrop of vulnerable balance between host and parasite
Who is the scalp and who are the lice?
The aged beggars with their jiggling cans and outstretched hands and open palms
You ask where their families are and they shrug with both strength and despair then indifference
Who do they owe and who owes them, what do you do and why this happens
This isn’t new, this is fate and the faithful will insist that it’s god’s plan for them
Bullshit, mercy does not equal pity and pathetic bystander apathy
Nor does it help to say a prayer and offer verbal sympathy.
Look at their eyes, pleading street urchins and dirty little boys
Like poodles waiting for masters to give them peso chew-toys
Then measure the weight of the resident obese cockroaches, stable
Scurrying along with the flipflops and bare feet of them frail enfant terribles.
This isn’t new, this is everyday, this is the sandbox and the playground
Swings and seesaws and slides and Ferris wheels and merry-go-rounds.
So you give them a coin with Rizal’s head on it that will not buy hunger medicine
Then you curse and cuss they won’t use them for taksi and rugby sniffs.
So you go and give the seemingly less fortunate a job, blue-collar and servicemen and butlers and majordomas
And thank the gods you were born in comfort and ease and swag and cash and yayas.
Bourgeoisie, nouveau riche, old money, oligarchs, officials and stars
You sigh and heave money at badass charities but never at your local park
Climbing castes, social climbing primate, crab mindset, admit the rich need the poor
Then you get all teary-eyed and say ahay when you read this morning’s editorial and news —

 

Well.
Watch the sun start its affair
Against a landscape of two-legged bees and concrete towers
And an economy in a wheelchair.
It’s hot and they itch and itch and itch
You tear and scratch and tear and scratch until it makes you a witch
To remind, isn’t this just your good old run-of-the-mill symbiosis?
Then go find your backbone, prince.
Because they are like the clownfish that prey on invertebrates
And this is not about he who has branches nor he who has never seen a bank —

 

 

What is luck but a one-night-stand?

 

 

Vivien Marie Lopez

(c) 2012

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