oh, these [neo]liberals
they love to be seen,
what’s the point of excess everything
if you ain’t seen by The Peers™️ or The Poors™️

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they tell us we are unfortunates or degenerates, ambitionless, uneducated, lazy: we, mere mothers, workers, poors, caregivers, included with “the deplorables” — lumped together in the unmelting trash pot of America

“our” consumption has created islands of plastic in the Pacific ocean
and the dunes of clothing in the Chilean desert
our thoughtless, lowbrow Walmart and Target tastes,
our holiday shopping, and aspirational Disney World, Pigeon Forge, or Vegas vacations — our rare and short-lived “joy” until the credit card is full and the bill arrives / we don’t get to savor the memories — our joy quickly mutates into anxiety, over-time hours, debt, pain

whilst every single day — is their windfall, every day is their holiday,

their screens open to the financial page bookmarks first thing in the morning followed by local crime, never white-collared, though — never to poverty, hunger, oppression, genocide:

“that sounds like a ‘you’ problem.”

god, I miss Bernie Madoff.

they’ve overrun this World by consuming all of Us
and in luxury, with blinders on — except to judge us

yet,

one single dinner at the latest michelin, a month worth of TANF

a single ’fit from the boutique, a half month’s rent

never questioning their gilded homes and pristine 5 star accommodations; their empty or incomed, second & third properties, driving up rents
whilst the housekeeping staff live in the ghettoes well out-of-sight/site
an hour commute by crowded bus or uninsured, 2008 honda civic

but the World somehow, has just presented itself for their paled, Western, shallow, incurious experience and exploration? for their eternal hedonism

they had the bootstraps, is all:

yours, mine, ours — because they don’t own work – or snow – boots: they don’t need ‘em

they fiddle, brunch, shop, tour, snap, collect and gaze at the beauty within their snow globe existence
they, the wannabe 19|2020s Gatsbys

whilst the New Rome collapses, outside

whilst the real World burns and the real World’s children are scorched.

i promise.

i promise, i promise,
we will wear and eat your gilded skin one day

soon

we taste your parasitic exhalations, your last gasps of greed, of privilege, in the air.

Whose Air?

“OUR AIR!”