Bright things, young ring-

masters of their own fate, future king-

pins, holding together the fabric of the state with

false silver lining on dark clouds of the economy

false hope, blindness - they all lie, trying 

to achieve "success," some idle idol's seductive syllibants

demanding padded pockets at the expense of every thing

once held dear by childhood, every scream of ethics held down

by ambition, every helpless groan of conscience 

contained, weighed down with the $1000K dream that etherizes

its inmate in the iron bars of greed -

I want none of it. Give me the streets, the people, pain and glory

give me humanity's blood and gory hands, to scrub with soap of suffering -no comfortable life

for me. Give me realities, young rings-

of mushrooms in the park grass, trampled by apartment-bred kids, the hoodlums

the panhandlers, the angry, isolated, lowest rung 

of the people, consoled by only these:

tears staining Eliot's pages in public libraries, hot August breezes,

sunrises' agonizing gold singing,

occasional warm rain beating, 

after bitter winters,

a few anticipated springs ...

let me live off hope instead of dollars

feed my soul instead of gullet - Let me speak my piece!

I only want the wealth that can be hidden in myself 

memories and words, of these

small,

bright,

things.