Socialism is the collective ownership by all the people of the factories, mills, mines, railroads, land and all other instruments of production.
Socialism means production to satisfy human needs, not as under capitalism, for sale and profit.
Who Runs Things?
Socialism means direct control and management of the industries and social services by the workers through a democratic government based on their nationwide economic organization.
Under socialism, all authority will originate from the workers, integrally united in Socialist Industrial Unions. In each workplace, the rank and file will elect whatever committees or representatives are needed to facilitate production. Within each shop or office division of a plant, the rank and file will participate directly in formulating and implementing all plans necessary for efficient operations.
Local and National Government
I make up to seven coffee runs a day
for up to eleven different people.
I cannot afford the Prada pumps,
nor walk in them, for that matter.
But Dad's old brown loafers,
with the stitching coming undone
along the sides,
are good enough for me.
No one can speak my name.
If they did, they wouldn't be able
to pronounce it anyway.
I know four languages,
none of them American.
When spoken to, I answer in strained English,
the sharp sounds tripping over my tongue.
What they say must be true;
I am meant only to carry a clipboard,
to fetch papers
spitting viciously out of a machine,
to correct other people's mistakes
on Documents of Importance
being sent up to the Big Guy.
The Blackberries buzz,
a hive of bees
in three-pieces and pencil skirts.
No one knows that when Connor Carpenter told me
to hold his Blackberry while he went
to the copier room with Sydney Applebaum,
"in case my wife calls,"
I e-mailed the entire department
(plus his wife),
telling them just what
tesla dreamed of pearls,
and i drank a bloody mary
with all the fixings, choked
on spiced tomato scented
in sweat; one man's struggling
to pay his rentand i never
liked feeding the energy bill
or hearing about bloodied
pigeons. last night, i thought
i heard the crackling of one
man's revolution, but it was
just the fridge left open and
money on the floor. last night,
tesla dreamed of pearls, and i
read about one man breaking
his calloused feet, sun-dried
skin turning purpleand his
wife hates when i get like this,
when i peel an orange to lick
its sticky-citrus and forget
the white shirt browning and his
eyes were black and gleaming;
she hates when i call latebut i
tell her tesla would have conceived
of a light that looks nothing like a
lemon, that looks nothing like death
in one man's weathered hand
"you always liked bloody maries,"
she hissed, "and tesla dreamed of