tuna in a current

get in the rhythm like the rest,
half-eaten by life and extinguished
from feeling; sleeping in a nest
of cushions made by someone
who couldn't afford them.
two-ply and egyptian cotton
woven to regal comfort, sold
to your chubby fist
you entitled son of a bitch.

dip your pen in ink, and write
down everything in your soul.
be sure you tell no one
that you're not even whole:
no one is this side of the sea,
and even folks who've got religion
chase a honey bee.
easily you're latent in truth,
awash in all the latest lies
sipping flavored coffees
grown by the people you despise.
oh yeah, it's a secret rather
than a language barrier.

get called out, tuna in a current.
be told for what you truly are,
and sample freedom upon
that simple reflection of who
you are, and who you could be.
rhythm of life, stoic distain,
being them out of ordinary
confidence enables nothing:
be of they, or be of thee.