Occupied by Ben Rasnic

We scrub our minds clean
as blank scrabble tiles,
attune our senses
to the numbing drone
of throbbing, repetitive drum beats.

Grunts and squeals can still be heard
emanating from the gilded canyons
of Wall Street
with each ticker tape fluctuation.

In the name of freedom
we have sacrificed our individuality,
vocabularies reduced
to hand lettered cardboard placards,
unsophisticated hand signals
& mic check chants

apparently oblivious to the inevitable truth
that change is just another name
for more of the same;
that whenever power changes hands,
the pigs will still be running the farm.

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