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Saturday, December 25, 2010

Dead Money [Today's News Poem, December 25, 2010]

Dead Money [Today's News Poem, December 25, 2010]

You call that decay there your asset?
How is it possible? Why did you come here
With wrinkle and tumor potential?
How is that possible? Out of the fathers
And mothers available, didn't
Some sort of pacifist, millionaire mogul;
Or saint—I have heard of them—figure
When we selected our bodies, our lifespans?
I wonder if souls are so stupid.
Pity's a game for creators—we players
Have measured our positive trade-offs,
Checkmating, getting our bingo—our bonus—
And cheating or luck do not figure:
Dice are predestined; not luck, it's selection.
You wanted to lose, to be worthless:
Genes of confetti, bones we can't eat, labor
Rejected and obsolete. Even
Spending, consuming, you're barely of value.
You're filled up with sadness, like babies
Knowing enough to expire in the cradle—
But stupid; you're stupid and living.

"With so much more at stake, it has become that much more important for companies to put at the helm the “best” executive or banker or fund manager they can find. "
—Eduardo Porter, The New York Times, December 25, 2010

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