Radical Joke #3

Who's the Boss?

A group of workers enter the boss’s office and tell him that they have just taken over the factory. “You can’t”, says the boss. “I own it”

“And how did you come to own it?” asks one of the workers.

“It was left to me by my father”, says the boss.

“How did he get it?” asks the worker.

“He got it from his father”, says the boss.

“And he?” asks the worker.

“From his father”, says the boss.

“And he?” persists the worker.

“He fought for it”, says the capitalist in a burst of familial pride.

“Well”, say the workers, all together this time, “We’ll fight you for it”.

Copyright © Bertell Ollman 2004-2013. All rights reserved.

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Down below

We are sea and sand. We are beneath you.

Trampled underfoot. Insignificant.

Just granules. Little pieces, unseen.

A backdrop for your beach, outside your home.

South coast of Barbados, West Indies.

Not allowed inside. Brush away the taint.

So dirty and unclean. Not good enough.

I am sure you are better. Haughty one.

We will not forget how we’ve been treated.

We have ourselves. You’re not the only one.

The only one who matters. Bite your own tongue.

Or place your foot inside. You will eat words.

We are hardy, tempered for the weather.

You are weak. Prey only on the injured.

You are our target. Prisoner of War.

Pay your respects. Tell us what is deserved.

Does it make you cry? Kingdom crumbling.

Built on our backs, therefore, you owe us more.

Cruelty and punishment for thriving.

Ages before you discovered toilets.

Our memories are vivid, remember you.

Welcome, warmth, kindness, generosity.

And you look down your nose. We’ll cut it off.

Show us you can’t be despicable you.

The gloves are off, pummeling pugilists.

You started the fight. Now it is a war.

The Fighter

Combatant. Fights without fear or delay.

Always engaged, ready to break the peace.

A struggle without fighting, not worth it.

Release the anger, you will feel relieved.

Cause matters not when there are expressions.

No handcuffs for rage, leave the guilt aside.

Smacks and booms and cackles of mad laughter.

Your descriptive ear hears the destruction.

I want it all, I want it now. Be done.

The silent hush is the boiling pressure.

No indicators, no prior warning.

Quicker than a whistle, you will see truth.

HOPE Columbine Memorial Library

By then it’s too late, he cares no longer.

Consequences, obstacles to feelings.

Love me not, forget me not. The Omen.

You were all warned. He was born a fighter.

You tied his hands, and thought he could be saved.

Ignorant fools. You know nothing of war.

A shock to the system that never leaves.

The circuits have been rewired at cost.

There is a worn path he rushes along.

Too quick to save the inferno he flashed.

At least the path within matches. Empty.

There was no alternative, wasn’t choice.

A collection of circumstances. Dead.

Found Unworthy

The warrior fights. Forgets his feelings.

Strength and might. His centrally focused mind.

English: Theseus fighting the Minotaur by Étie...

Victories won and every kingdom saved.

All to take her hand. A waft of nothing.

Stories will be told of his deeds and traits.

Her hand will never fold. Such dire straits.

Can’t place a ring. Another hand holds tight.

Prancing through fields of merry time and cheer.

Accomplishments gather dust on the shelf.

An officer, gentleman, respected.

Unseen in countless battles he must fight.

Can’t reach the ceiling. Too far. Made of glass.

Just like her slipper the prince found and stole.

A way to her heart through smiles and joy.

Nothing like what’s shared through scars and bloodshed.

The warrior grows stronger and alone.

Invincible to those he must now fight.

Chasing the demons who scream at his back.

He can’t turn around. His Minotaur’s maze.

Someone to save, or let it be himself.

A rider in cloak and dagger comes near.

“Come with me.” The rider says nothing more.

The warrior vanishes. Rises new.

Pray be his faithful, to not meet his rage.

The feast of the haunted. It is all done.

Demons, Dreams, and Hauntings of Her

Hands Holding The World

She still haunts my dreams like a demon.

Remembrances shared even though she’s lost.

I try to forgive but I can’t forget.

The traitor, the fool, and the aftermath.

Try to let go, but my arms hold her tight.

We used to be one, prancing, holding hands.

Lovers that wonder, and embrace the moon.

She has since moved on, forgotten our lives.

When will I be freed from her wicked spell?

The salvation turned into her greed.

Left me sick, unbecoming who I am.

My life became something that was not hers.

Different minds, though we loved each other so.

I was married to work and to the world.

She was engaged with feelings and herself.

Separate but together. Not for long.

Unsuited for us, we could not adapt.

Unable to sustain what was not there.

Brimstone and fire the world could not heal.

Chaos reigns when emotions rule supreme.

We tried so hard, but effort is not fate.

False, artificial, it was just too late.

Diverging paths. No time to say goodbye.

Find another, replace what we can’t have.

And I will still dream, as though nothing passed.