This poem is dedicated to my friend Rob Zifchak who is currently 14 months sober and going strong. Rob, your strength to stay clean inspires me to keep true to my self. Thanks for your friendship.Well, hello attractive person who is also clearly attracted to me. Yes, I agree, this is a really great party. Speaking of parties, who are you going to vote for this fall? Who’s that, Ron Paul? Why? Because you want weed legalized? Oh, I want pot legalized, too. Would I like a beer? No, no thank you. I don’t drink. Why, you ask. Well, let me explain using this poem I happen to have. The name of this poem is “The Revolution Will Not Serve Budweiser”. I shouldn’t have to explain why I’m sober because maybe I used to get messed up by my fucked-up father when I was a scared small child who cried when I smelled Papa’s liquor. Or maybe a drunk driver head-on killed my mother when at 90 miles an hour he drifted into the other lane and severed her body in two! Right after she picked me up from a party I wasn’t even supposed to be at. You see, I should not have to explain why I’m sober because maybe my big sister got way too drunk after some frat-boy-flirt slipped a date-rape that sunk to the bottom of her glass and went straight to the top of her head causing her to drink her soon gang-banged body so full that in the morning we’d find her dead. Or maybe I just don’t like the taste. But even if that’s the case, I should not have to answer to your potentially-painful, wound-opening, prodding peer-pressure. Now, I am sure you are curious so I will answer you just once, very serious, with the reason, no! the reasons why I am sober: When we talk about hunger in Uganda, Burma, or Brazil, as we sit at a fine dining table and consume our hard-earned fill, we’re not speaking of backwards savages, dumb and untrained, who failed to find food the year it never rained. When we talk about hungry children, all proper and rational, that we see on commercials for compassion international, we are talking about stolen capital. Taken from the hands of aboriginal people by the long arm of the multi-national and the complex- military-industrial. So when I stare the obese in the face baffled by the simultaneous overconsumption and starvation of the human race, I want to ask, although it might be rude, “Why in the world is there not enough food?” Why do the hungover Sunday-pew-aisle-sleepers sing “Gloria!” while the malnourished multitudes suffer and starve in Somalia? You see, I should not have to explain why I’m sober when farmers forgo sowing body-filling, healthy crops by planting lucratively-profitable, cerebral-cell-killing hops. So when you ask why I don’t consume, like it’s the elephant in the room, I’ll show you the true elephant, and it’s a billion people living on less than a dollar a day forced into sobriety by an economic prohibition of nutrition. Meanwhile, mono-cropping wheat sets our soil on the path to destruction, and the planet’s on the brink so we can have more cheap beer to drink. Yeah, we could feed the world over and over if we were all a little more sober. It’s not like these are new situations, or it all happened accidentally. Fire water proliferated then devastated the first American nations and tore apart their families for the sake of stealing the sacred land to turn food and drink into commodities. But who produces these potent potables and why? A group of investors making millions off our bad habits, by showing our mothers, sisters, daughters in photo-shopped, bare-all-skin, and prostituting them as sexual doorways with the bottle as a man’s way in. How objectified must women become strutting between Super Bowl plays, half-naked falling in 30-second-love with men who are fat, lazy, and dumb before we stop buying the drug? These problems are not disconnected. The ecological abuse by the agricultural capitalist is the marketed rape by the commercial chauvinist. Oh, we say we want revolution, yet how can we revolt when the radical still drives a car but even worse, pays two to four bucks a can at the local bar for the Miller-owned PBR? My pre-licensed therapist serves spirits to pay her bills. And she says the saloon solicits $3000 a night on weekend nights alone. That is $9000 in taxes paid to king booze on its bubbling throne. Multiply that by 50 weekends a year, and we see $450,000 spent on wine, liquor, and beer. Multiplied by a conservative 1000 bars in L.A. County equals 450 million spent drinking annually. Pretty bad? It gets worse, as you might guess, 450 mil. is half the national budget used to solve homelessness. And what about the vets? Especially the ones with PTSD, the Army doesn’t want to pay for their psychiatry, and you can bet they don’t teach the healing process of transcendental meditation making the six-pack the final form of self-medication. After fighting and dying for the profit of the elites, we give 40 oz. for medicine before putting trained killers on the streets. So there’s something you should know, the alcoholics sleeping in tents down on skid row are sealed-and-stuck to their fate by the alcoholic culture we all help create. But wait, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, you wanted to know why I’m sober. Well, I guess, I just don’t like giving money to a sexist-homophobic-jingoistic-racist-environmentally-destructive-violent-exploitative-ageist-family-breaking-addictive-capitalist-classist-economic-structure. It leaves a bad taste in my mouth. But I shouldn’t have to explain why I am sober.