Please remove your hand, and keep it to yourself.
You can't assign me to your ménagerie.
Don't dialect my mouth, I have my own tongue.
Dear ventriloquist, you are not my wheelchair.
Stop presuming that you know better how to
organize my muscles than I am able.
You're just using me for a crutch, anyway.
Dear ventriloquist, please don't leave your soapbox
in the middle of the sidewalk for me to
trip over on my way to work. I broke my
toe last time, and you're lucky I didn't sue.
Dear ventriloquist, I'm not a poster boy,
so stop headlining me in your old gray lies.
I've seen how your coalitions are powered;
your hands are dirty from handling those fossils.
Dear ventriloquist, I am not a pack mule
for your manufactured solidarity.
I am not a cardboard cut-out talisman
for you to passion play into court rulings.
Dear ventriloquist, I'm paid ten bucks an hour,
selling the most ancient modern sacrament,
to help my people to reach the promised sale-
don't sneer! We are too holy to be reduced.
Dear ventriloquist, we are not unconscious;
we are ignoring you while we're on the phone,
deciding our own political discourse.
Don't mock! We will always be too pure for you.
Dear ventriloquist, you only urge us to
question our "assumptions" when it's you writing
the questions, but we know bullshit when we smell
it, and here we are, a nation of callers.
Dear ventriloquist, I can see your lips move,
while us bourgeois pass you by to want, buy, have.
Copyright © 2011 Bruce V. Bracken