The Trajectory of Hate

Nothing I do makes enough money
to hook the ears of the hokey crowd,
who poke the stirring harmless giant
with news of what it's all about.

Handing out reams of bibs and pacifism,
I paddle through the sea of god-fearing
folks, and mark the veneer crumbling,
the bottom line at last exposed.

And it only descends further,
furiously assembling steam,
conning the common interest
with the promise of their furor.

Give me your rabid, your poor
huddled masses of prejudice.
None will be turned around.
I lift my lamp to the golden rule.