The Masses are Lost

The Masses are lost.

They drift through water and time

And get stuck on sharp rocks.

They accumulate like trash

Gathering litter by litter

Until the river is clogged

And unsafe to drink from or swim in.

The masses are lost.

They wander the great American wasteland

Wasted and wanting things that leave them wanting.

They thirst for water but drink the sand.

No direction, no plan, no eyes, no hands.

They see mirages as revelation,

Walk in circles as revolution.

The masses are lost,

From the concourse to the catacombs

From Brook’s end to Brooklyn.

They walk the streets like unemployment lines

Waiting for someone to call their number.

Desperation is comfortable, hunger inevitable

Struggle unavoidable, progress unattainable,

Yet here they are mimicking the walk of the purposeful.

They confuse everything with anything.

And not all who wander are lost

But not all who are lost wonder enough to ever find direction.

The masses are lost,

And we are lost without the masses.

Caught in a cycle of tumbles,

I say “keep walking don’t mind the door”

But they’re always showing the rich and hiding the poor

Until we find something worth looking forward…

Something worth looking for.

Fighting Fires

There's a great fire in a high-rise building. Hundreds of people are trapped and will die as a result. The fire department shows up but begin to argue about what course of action to take. The firemen are split. They can choose to only evacuate residents on the floors that have not caught fire yet, lowering the chance of firemen injury/casualty; or they can attempt to rescue residents in slightly more precarious locations but raise the probability that firemen will get injured or die in the line of duty. Regardless of the option chosen, hundreds will die and those in the hardest to reach apartments will not be rescued.

During this time a handful of unauthorized people start making their way into the building. They are clearing debris and attempting to rescue any person they come into contact with.

On the sidelines are thousands of onlookers. Some are jeering the firemen for their inaction. Some are insulting the firemen for their proposals. Many of them are upset with the people who took it upon themselves to attempt a rescue without following proper procedure. The onlookers create a cacophony of complaints but none of them lift a finger to help.

The building on fire is our country and this country is in crises. The people we have leading this country have various plans, some ineffective, others downright harmful that exacerbate our crises. The people without authority (and sometimes proper instructions) who are making a rescue attempt are folks like OWS-those tired of complaining from the sidelines, who have taken it upon themselves to be harbingers of change.

Who I would like to focus on for a moment are the millions of onlookers. Those in our country that find the wrong in everything and everyone, yet take no action themselves. They complain about the democrats and republicans when it is election time and they destructively criticize OWS during occupations. I have a bone to pick with you. You are cowards. You hide behind your apathy and cynicism like bullet proof glass. You see the spark of change and you criticize it until it is snuffed out. And you know why? Because you are comfortable... and safe. You live in a country that will not persecute dissenting opinion, yet you don't cherish that. You revel in your apparent rebellion, that is not a revolution, just you and your band of haters walking in circles. Do the world a favor and grow a spine, take action, go out into the world and make mistakes worth talking about… Those mistakes are the growing pains of any movement. Stop sniveling behind a computer screen tearing down anyone who attempts to alter the status quo. You are part of the problem because you bring no solutions. Let your criticism be your action... or at the very least stop distracting those who are busy fighting the fire.

Sincerely,

Enmanuel Candelario

The First Stone

A boy stands like a bear 
On its hind legs protecting its den.

Fingers hugging hard earth, 
He is poised for a fight-bearing teeth and growling.
In reality, that boy is just a cub barking at men strapped with murder,
2 extra clips of death on their belt and displacement a radio call away.

This boy holds hard earth until it hurts.
He keeps it close to his heart because it holds the wound in place.
And he will only let go when he sees the white of their eyes.

“Let he who is without sin, throw the first stone.”
He doesn't know if he is sinless, he doesn't care.
Sin is a flag that the enemy wears.
Sin is an army of cowards without faces.
The boy has heard about drive-by shootings
But he lives fly-by bombings.

In Palestine there is no forgetting
There’s a 9/11 every week.
Except the world does not call this group of murderers terrorists.
They are called brave and honorable.

A grandmother holds the boy’s dead and crumbled face in a rubbled place.
A boy who once stood as fierce as a bear protecting his home
Now lays broken at the foot of the river
Stones scattered all about his body.
1 for every heart that the enemy ripped out.

Hearts are just hardened earth
And he who throws stones throws hardened, dying, embittered love
That explodes with the force of a people 
Dying to be free.

The Lesser of 2

Sometimes the distance between

The evil and its lesser is so great

That more harm would come

From a decision of omission.

Life's Little Lessons

An accident can lead to injury.

An injury can lead to separation.

Separation can be painful.

It will make you reminisce of the good times-

How you took each other for granted.

The pain of separation will ebb

And lead to acceptance.

That will make way for healing.

In healing there is rebirth.

In rebirth there is strength.

Both of you are now stronger than you were before the pain.

The scar is a testament to your unity.


These are the lessons from the loss of a toenail.

(Life is always teaching us about ourselves and our connections to one another. We would grow wise if we take a moment to listen).

Fish

So much to write,
And still I grasp for words.

They slip through my hands 
Like fish in a pond.

A Soul to Bare

She wrote her lovely story down
In pretty words that shined,
And people clapped as well as I
For baring is divine.

And bare she did her soul to me
I promised not to chide.
Inspired by her endless toil
I wrote my soul upon a rhyme.

I scribbled a battered story down
In clumsy words on lines,
Enwrapped in somber silence now...
She did not clap for mine.