God is a capitalist, but he’s also been known as fascist, immaterial, holy, imperial. His subjects refer to him as the one per cent, as they grow old, twisted and bent, victims of serial royalty that’s become more spoiled and arrogant with centuries.
(His banks are too big to fail so long as we bail them out. )
Faith in ourselves is too small is yield any change beyond the few dollars in our pockets, because money is language and they have the vocabulary to talk us down, while we continue to spout beginner sentences because we were only ever educated in cents.
It’s just enough to pay rent for a young mother whose lover left her an inheritance of bills and children. It doesn’t buy civilians turned veterans their repentance, working as door greeters for corporate confederates.
It incarcerates kids for joint possession, as if there’s some point to turning potheads into killers. It peddles pharmaceutical solutions and Hollywood filler to hyperpartisan electorates, because if anything sells like sex it’s fame and cigarettes.
(I suppose we should ask what Jesus would do.)
In the name of the father, the son, the human spirit that’s sunken to the depths of the American Dream and hung itself with a noose of dollar bills for the thrill of holding Washingtons like loaded guns;
Take the blue pill, Neo.
The only life in Heaven you’ll ever find worships money more than this one.