I bare my wounds

and aches in my world

as jaundiced eyes ignore

ethical standards,

dragging weighty baggage.

Gnarled words unfold

through thoughts of others,

black sun closing half

of my life to enrichment.

Debased virtues thrive

in a backward/forward

way of thinking

that it’s all

about me.

Encrypted voices

speak in tongues

in disdained smog

and unintelligible cries

of wood fires,

aghast at the loss

of integrity.

I face wrinkled mirrors

begging for the release

from prison bars

of my own creation.

Mastery of the storm

is an ethical dance of

life problems reuniting

with naked truth.

Birth of innocent child -

the root of ourselves –

reminder of

unblemished beginning.

I am stunned

by the staggering silence

of forgotten morality.

I face daunting crossroads

as I confront the fact

that I must be a witness

and come forth

from darkness

to protest the violation

of ethical dilemmas

of burrowing humankind.

Must I accept

the world as it is

through distorted mask?

Can I erase self-described

mission in life

to yell ethical biases

from the rooftop

of sordid yesterdays?

Clock strikes midnight,

time to examine life

with magnifying glass,

unleashing mind- contorted

values, camouflaged

by enslaved habits.

Cast off slanted mores,

proudly wearing the crown

of decency and morals,

uplifting promenade

reawakening sacred ethics.

        Socrates remarked in Plato's Republic that the cornerstone of justice is a matter of property. Ownership. What this means is what makes an act just, legal, ethical, or good, versus unjust, illegal, unethical, or wrong, is whether it violates a person's property. Socrates didn't expand upon the idea in great detail, but consider its implications. Murder is wrong because it involves the stealing of a life. Lying is wrong because it involves the stealing of a truth.

        A classic utilitarian ethical philosopher, such as John Stuart Mill, would provide a counterargument to these examples involving a lesser-between-two-evils dilemma. This antithesis arguably silences Socrates. Then again, he'd probably respond by illuminating that, nonetheless, what determines the lesser evil is ultimately an outcome devoid of theft, physical and nonphysical, tangible and intangible. The question this position undoubtedly begs, though, concerns how we define, determine, evaluate, and protect property. 

        It's time for the ethicists, lawyers, and politicians of our world to realize they are all ethicists, really, and it's time for the public sector ("law") and the private sector ("economy") to realize they are both dealing with transactions of value, really. Goodness is value is wealth, wealth is value is goodness. 

        Or not.

Within every discipline or profession exists its own code of ethics. Most of these disciplines require coursework designed to enlighten and edify as to the ethical specifics of said discipline and the consequences for the breach of such.

Within society, a very similar, yet perhaps broader code exists, that one could argue is the sum of all legalities instituted for the good of all; legal vs. illegal, right vs. wrong, good vs. bad. Several wise men have suggested that ethical considerations surrounding these dichotomies should focus on property, either real or personal, although universally accepted definitions of each have proven elusive.

Aditionally, a grey (#notmychristian) area exists, however, when a child is raised without the guidance of a functioning moral compass and a behavior or action has somehow slipped through a judicial loophole, making its ethical position a bit more nebulous. What then?

I submit that all people could be governed by one simple ethical expectation. I learned it as a boy and while many times chose to ignore its value, continue to extol its virtues. 

Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.  Matthew 7:12

Also known as The Golden Rule, the power and impact of this nugget is all too often overlooked, overshadowed, or ignored outright. I'll concede that I am rather simple and naïve, but will forever believe that this is all the ethics mankind should ever need.

The gates opened with a creak, allowing the small blonde reporter and her crew to enter into the Underworld's foyer. Inside, they were met with a pleasantly lit and comfortably air-conditioned lobby. At the front counter perched two female receptionists, both very professional in appearance, but neither particularly striking in any other way. One was a short, fairly round demoness and the other was taller and had a more athletic build.

 The reporter looked around in wonder and approached the counter with a puzzled look on her face.

"May I help you, miss?" The shorter demoness asked politely.

"Well, I'm just not sure I'm at the right place... Is this...?"

"Hell? Reception for visitors and guests. Is that what you were looking for?"

The reporter glanced back at her small team that consisted of a camera man and her young, very male assistant. They looked just as lost as she felt.

"Yes, I believe it is, I just... I just expected more..."

"Heat?" The demoness finished for her with an amused smile. "Fire? Smoke? Maybe some screaming?"

"Well, yes!" The reporter exclaimed. "This doesn't look or feel like Hell! It's more like the lobby of an old yet high dollar hotel!"

"That's because this is the visitor's entrance. Well, visitors and solicitors... A few guests."

The reporter shook her blonde hair out of her eyes and held her hand out.

"I'm sorry, I'm being impolite. My name is Zika Tiny. I'm a reporter with the Peanut Gallery, where our opinion means nothing to anyone and most of the news we deliver is gossip and hearsay. I'm here because my annoying voice finally got on your boss's last nerve and he gave me the go ahead to come on down and do a report."

"Is that so? Well you must be quite annoying indeed. He never allows reporters down here."

"You have no idea! Yeah, my boss wants me to find out how it is that this horrifying joint gets the award for best work ethics every year. It is run by the Prince of Darkness and the business is the torture of the damned, after all. Our organization is curious as to how there can be such high work ethics in such a place."

The taller demoness reached over and pressed a big, red and gold button. "The reporter is here. The one from the network you can't trust a word out of... ... Okay, I'll bring her up."

She hopped down from her perch on the tall stool and Miss Tiny noticed her quickly curl her tail up under her skirt.

"Follow me, Miss." 

Read part 2 posted directly after I post this one...

The Mirriam-Webster Dictionary defines ethics as the discipline dealing with what is good and bad and with moral duty and obligation

Everyone tells me how to behave

Church's ancient tablets of hard stone 

Writings by prophets, good kings and slaves

Parables about fish and bread loaves

Man's laws too, add to my religion

Drive fifty-five, not any quicker

Don't do drugs, or arouse suspicion

No stabbing your spouse, only bicker

My parents, too, raised me with their views

Love your siblings, call old mom and dad

For peace, minor infractions excuse

Remember the good, forget the bad

Work has its own set of rules to do

Children do count, but (more) saving face

Budgets, taxed town folk, it's very true

Put public school in state of disgrace

Still, paperwork and deadlines to meet

The staff handbook tells me how to act

Proper dress, no sandals on my feet

Paperwork due dates, other fine facts

Marriage, too, has its own set of rules

He cooks, I make the fine marriage bed

Follow these so we don't look like fools

I make the money, he's still the "head"

With all who build my ethics tower

I take a bit from each spoke of my wheel

Mash it up into my finest hour

And ignore most, keep it, proudly, real!

I’d had sugar only once, stolen, crude, buried back in the streets where I would meet a knife between my ribs if I so much as glanced the wrong way, a shallow wound if I were lucky enough. The dim lighting behind the small shop was barely enough to discern the large granules broken between my fingers as I let little slivers of the stuff slip onto my tongue, savoring the foreign taste. I didn’t know if it was the novelty or the adrenaline from the adolescent-led raid that had made it taste so damn good -- could be both, was probably both -- but something in my young mind had made me want to cry when the paper bag was empty. I’d licked off my fingers one by one, tilted my head back and tried to catch any remaining morsels, took a long, slow whiff of the sickly saccharine interior before me, unable to bear parting with it so easily, and gingerly folded up the small parcel before tucking it into one of the smaller folds of my worn sash. And I’d long forgotten the taste of it, but the simple memory of having had such a luxury was enough, sometimes, to make me forget about other things on my palate, about salt and ash and blood.

So I think I'm justified, then, when the taste of her lips is so overwhelmingly sweet that I find myself unable to react.

“-- and I’m sorry,” she murmurs, pulling away, and suddenly the dead end street is full and alive again, lights no longer construed in a strange, blurred haze, the bustle of the marketplace just barely avoiding an intimidatingly scarred, ever-scowling mercenary and her beautiful charge. The order is watching, I know -- with it, leagues and leagues of assassins, spies, unsavory informants -- and the order is ensuring that one of its best hired swords is not weak to something so affecting in the field as emotion, as fear, as a few seconds' worth of some impulsive, sheepish kiss from this too genuine, too stutter-prone, too sugared girl. The order knows how to cover all angles of possible betrayal from any and all pursuits, how to eliminate and manipulate its players into blank-eyed, whimpering submission, how to keep its employees meticulously obedient and dependent and perfectly, quietly, willingly in line. How to set snipers and executioners and murderers like wolves on a sap-soft, honey-sweet, dulcet girl like this. How to make examples of us if we would so choose the path of destruction they'd let us waltz upon. Or if I would choose, for once driven by the desire for human comfort instead of human blood, to taste and taste and taste that addicting sugar on her lips again and again until she sank breathless into my arms, laughing in that easy, singsong hum of a voice, teasing in my ear: What took you so long?

And I understand why sugar had been so addictive.

Two days ago I didn’t know you

I didn’t know your face

I didn’t know what would happen to me

At that first discreet embrace.

You came here with a fire

I had never known

And with that fire burned me down

’Till my heart was yours alone.

I had never known the feeling

You brought here when you came

And I could hardly bear the answer

I knew I had to explain.

The throbbing pain inside my head

Was like never before

It showed me all our sweet moments

Before I struck that painful chord.

It made me question why

Why I had to push you away

It made me wilt when I couldn't tell you

I thought of you everyday.

And all I could ever want

Was to kiss you goodnight

To show you how I feel

And to feel that it’s alright.

What I’d give to spend eternity,

Holding you tight

Even if eternity only lasted

Till the red of morning light.

This feeling deep within,

I wish would never end

This feeling deep within me

Alas, is foe as well as friend.

It feels as if it will break me

But from my path cannot bend

And if I don’t find solace

You'll own my heart until the end.

And if you forget me quickly

It’ll tear me apart

But it may be the best thing,

’cause I suffered from the start.

Two days ago I didn't know you

I barely knew your name

Two days ago I didn’t know

I’d never be the same.