an edifice of polished wire,
built on a claim of public trust.
towers of cold,
legal fire,
to tame the spectrum into dust.
with charts and graphs,
they allocate,
the right to speak,
to resonate.
a system meant to mediate,
but built to serve the powerful and great.

they insulate the sanctioned sound,
a clean,
commercial,
hollow ground.
while just outside the guarded line,
the human static,
raw,
divine;
the pirate's pulse,
the village plea,
are hunted down relentlessly.
this insulation,
tight and deep,
protects the wealthy while they sleep.

the truth we externalize to space;
a growing,
orbital disgrace.
a truth we dump in sonic seas,
that brings the great whales to their knees.
no fine for this,
no sheriff's call,
this regulated silence falls
only upon the ones so small,
they have no lobby in the hall.

so,
here's the joke,
the stark contrast;
the future's trash is loosely cast.
the natural world,
a din ignored,
while tiny voices are abhorred.
the greatest mess we leave unchecked,
the smallest rebel is correct.
the fcc,
a punchline cruel,
enforcing order as a tool.