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Poetry

I Am Not a Capitalist

Michael James Martin

I give away books for free.
Undrunk. And maybe ask for change in the amount of
Your tongue crossing your lips
As you anticipate the paper’s geometry.

I am not a capitalist.

I pick up every penny I see and give it to
The man inside my pocket
Who studied college level sloppy economics.
He exchanges the penny for
No more than what real change is worth.

Always poor. It’s true. Job to job
Not because of that flaky substance
All prior generations say we’re made from—
For experiences which aren’t resume format.

I am not a capitalist.

Yes, the outcry was deafening and the programs
To feed the poor, clothe the homeless, help
The offshoots of something ever-hungry
Were established so we’d recline satiated
And complacent in our chairs of living mosquitoes.

Can the cog imprinted by the choke-struggle
of gear rivets claim to be unapart of the machine?

If yes, I am not a revolutionary.
If no, I am not suited for political dissidence.
If it doesn’t matter,
I am a capitalist with a briefcase of full disclosure.

The answer is none of the above.
The answer is not in the beginning.

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