Underneath it all, a raging
surge, an undertow below
simplistic words that float—
the tossed and churned asides
of daily discourse: our secret
code of strange disdain and
anger that the world has changed
without us, without notice,
without the consultation
we deserve in a democratic
republic. No one’s immune.

I love stories of the old days
when Anyman could be
a character, a distant crag,
a local landmark, a unique
feature of a culture clinging
to wilder ground, before we
tamed and broke its heart
into paved submission, before
new rules that make them
outlaws after the fact, after
the feeding we consumed.

Yet some things stay the same:
always the self-righteous
and dark closets, always
diversions from the truth,
always greed and power lust—
just follow the money.

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