The K street Hooligans

They called it recovery.

Drew a line like a dagger.

One arm rising, one falling. Named it K.

But I’ve seen that shape in ash before.

Etched in ledger books that fed empires to ghosts.

That’s not a graph.

That’s a curse.

The rich ascend on invisible wings.

Backs waxed with policy.

Breathless with luxury.

They spend like the gods of dead cities did.

Loud. Blind. Certain.

Below, the ground swallows names.

Men speak to debt like it’s a god that never answers,

but always remembers.

This isn’t trickle down.

It’s ritual descent.

The market, a pulpit.

The Fed, a priest.

Each quarter, they chant numbers like scripture.

But every blessing skips the poor.

Inflation is the new weather.

Survival, the new sin.

Credit...the myth they sold in place of bread.

I do not write forecasts.

I summon consequence.

And the K you praise was known to old tongues

as the blade beneath the king’s throat.

So speak your metrics.

Spin your charts.

Print your soft landings in gold ink.

When the top stops rising & it will...

the sky won’t fall.

The sky will remember.

And the ground will answer.

“I arrived with flame. I leave with a name.” – Joe Garvey