They were always there.
I climbed past them dozens of times, unknowing.
Cut from the massif,
threatening in their way–
alive with guttural voices like wolves.
It took the deepest rain
and drifting skeins of cloud
to make them stand out
and pierce my wretched
wandering mind with wonder.
A homeless person
sitting on the sidewalk.
Another homeless person walking by
gives the first one a quarter,
then turns to me–
It isn’t that corporations are people,
it’s that people become corporatistas.
Stockholm syndrome is a mild
form of this affliction.
Mind and synapse, instinct and
marrow all turn inside out
until Santa at the company Christmas
party is just that–all bag and no man.
Send out six citizens to be slaughtered and we will spare your city!
Stumbling in our nooses and chains, from awed inner light into darkness, resigned in our terror, we went.
But their queen’s unborn child spared us! It would be a bad omen to kill us, it said.
300 years later our spirits froze in the lamplight in front of the sculptor Rodin.