I wanted to give this a few days so others could share their take aways.
Mike, this is what I take away.
You wrote a body-politic fable in the oldest tradition, the belly and the limbs at war over who matters most, but you made it do something newer. The title is the first move. *United We Stand.* A body can't *not* be united. So every voice insisting on its own primacy is arguing against the one thing it can't escape. The quarrel is the sickness, and you let us feel that.
The hands are the heart of it. You set the right hand up as the self-appointed important one, dismissing the "lefties" who "bring no food, nor paint the house," who "come at a problem from funny angles," who are just so "different." Then the left hand says the truest line in the poem: *our form and function is identical to yours.* Because it is. They're mirror images. Two halves of one organism, each convinced the other contributes nothing, each doing the same work in reverse. You staged polarization as anatomy. Nobody has to explain the metaphor because the body already is the metaphor.
And you didn't stop at left and right. Underneath the partisan layer there's a labor argument — the feet "on ourselves all day," "walking all over us," the back "pulling their weight," the buttocks "all but ignored." The prestigious digits get rhetoric. The load-bearing parts get resentment. And you mark the class line with the accent — the bum speaks Cockney while the thumb speaks like a barrister. Gary and Dean down in the hinterlands, doing the work, getting none of the speeches. That choice does more than a paragraph of argument could.
Then the pun carries it: *each piece knew it was greater than the sum, even the bum.* The whole disease in one line. Everyone believes they exceed the whole — the one thing a body can't survive believing.
The slap is where it turns. The hand strikes the face and no one ordered it. "Wasn't me. Must be some involuntary urge." In a body this divided, harm stops needing an author. The violence goes autonomic. Everyone can honestly deny they did it, and it still happens, through them, onto the innocent blinking eyes who only asked to be warned. Discourse past a certain pitch stops being chosen and becomes reflex.
The ending lands it. The brain tries to give the unity speech — the moral, the sermon — and gets shouted down. You refuse to let the poem moralize. The lesson arrives as a symptom instead: the scalp thinning, the stress written into the body. The body can't lecture itself into peace. It can only pay for the fight in hair.
That's why it works as a fable and not a lecture. It's almost all voices, stacked into cacophony, performing the noise it describes, and you never step in to say what it means. You trust the reader to assemble it.
Brilliant piece, Mike. *United We Stand* and the only thing the whole body agrees on is the reflex to slap itself in the face.
Thank you Bear, couldn't have said it better. In a private discussion with an interested reader, I did say that allegory especially, and writing in general, work best when you trust the audience to fill in blanks. Post-modern literary critique, the audience is the arbiter of truth, etc. I told this individual that I realized that the body, and the binary, worked for all dynamic pairs of opposites, and like any good allegory, Animal Farm was an ideal starting point. Thanks for such a thorough and thought-provoking comment Bear. And good on ya for recognizing the working-class bum!
Mike, what I enjoyed most is that the poem refuses to stay in one category.
On one level, it reads as political commentary. The right and left hands sound uncannily like factions, parties, nations, even ideologies, each convinced they are carrying civilization while dismissing everyone else’s contribution.
But the longer I sat with it, the more it felt like an allegory of ego itself. Every part mistakes being necessary for being central. Every voice confuses contribution with supremacy.
What makes this work so well is that you never become heavy-handed about any of it. The buttocks nearly steal the show. The feet are perpetually aggrieved. The middle finger is exactly who we expect him to be. Every part arrives with its own recognizable vanity, insecurity, grievance, or self-importance.
And then that involuntary slap lands like the perfect punchline and the perfect thesis at the same time. One part acts, another part suffers, nobody accepts responsibility, and somehow the scalp pays the price.
I finished this laughing, then thinking, then laughing again. That balance is difficult to achieve. You managed to turn a squabbling body into a surprisingly sharp meditation on interdependence, identity, and the strange human habit of believing we are the indispensable part of a much larger whole.
Allegory much? The dispute, the self importance…familiar in so many ways. And, very biblical in tone to the concept of the body of Christ. 1 Corinthians 12:15-21, which explains that all parts of the body are interconnected and equally necessary.
Glad the picture was of the fingers not butt cheek!
I love how even body parts need to work together to achieve harmony and balance. Who would have guessed things just work out better in life when that happens!
Terribly disappointed at the lack of mentions of nipples. 😂
Really clever and humorous.
This is layered, manages to be thought-provoking and funny all at once. Great job!
Lol thanks Carlos, I almost went there
Love it Mike! Great job!
Thank you Dorie!
Wow, I am really looking forward to see what others are seeing underneath the surface of this 🔥🔥🔥🔥
So am I 😏. Thanks Bear
I wanted to give this a few days so others could share their take aways.
Mike, this is what I take away.
You wrote a body-politic fable in the oldest tradition, the belly and the limbs at war over who matters most, but you made it do something newer. The title is the first move. *United We Stand.* A body can't *not* be united. So every voice insisting on its own primacy is arguing against the one thing it can't escape. The quarrel is the sickness, and you let us feel that.
The hands are the heart of it. You set the right hand up as the self-appointed important one, dismissing the "lefties" who "bring no food, nor paint the house," who "come at a problem from funny angles," who are just so "different." Then the left hand says the truest line in the poem: *our form and function is identical to yours.* Because it is. They're mirror images. Two halves of one organism, each convinced the other contributes nothing, each doing the same work in reverse. You staged polarization as anatomy. Nobody has to explain the metaphor because the body already is the metaphor.
And you didn't stop at left and right. Underneath the partisan layer there's a labor argument — the feet "on ourselves all day," "walking all over us," the back "pulling their weight," the buttocks "all but ignored." The prestigious digits get rhetoric. The load-bearing parts get resentment. And you mark the class line with the accent — the bum speaks Cockney while the thumb speaks like a barrister. Gary and Dean down in the hinterlands, doing the work, getting none of the speeches. That choice does more than a paragraph of argument could.
Then the pun carries it: *each piece knew it was greater than the sum, even the bum.* The whole disease in one line. Everyone believes they exceed the whole — the one thing a body can't survive believing.
The slap is where it turns. The hand strikes the face and no one ordered it. "Wasn't me. Must be some involuntary urge." In a body this divided, harm stops needing an author. The violence goes autonomic. Everyone can honestly deny they did it, and it still happens, through them, onto the innocent blinking eyes who only asked to be warned. Discourse past a certain pitch stops being chosen and becomes reflex.
The ending lands it. The brain tries to give the unity speech — the moral, the sermon — and gets shouted down. You refuse to let the poem moralize. The lesson arrives as a symptom instead: the scalp thinning, the stress written into the body. The body can't lecture itself into peace. It can only pay for the fight in hair.
That's why it works as a fable and not a lecture. It's almost all voices, stacked into cacophony, performing the noise it describes, and you never step in to say what it means. You trust the reader to assemble it.
Brilliant piece, Mike. *United We Stand* and the only thing the whole body agrees on is the reflex to slap itself in the face.
🤔🤔🤔
🐻 Bear
Thank you Bear, couldn't have said it better. In a private discussion with an interested reader, I did say that allegory especially, and writing in general, work best when you trust the audience to fill in blanks. Post-modern literary critique, the audience is the arbiter of truth, etc. I told this individual that I realized that the body, and the binary, worked for all dynamic pairs of opposites, and like any good allegory, Animal Farm was an ideal starting point. Thanks for such a thorough and thought-provoking comment Bear. And good on ya for recognizing the working-class bum!
Mike, what I enjoyed most is that the poem refuses to stay in one category.
On one level, it reads as political commentary. The right and left hands sound uncannily like factions, parties, nations, even ideologies, each convinced they are carrying civilization while dismissing everyone else’s contribution.
But the longer I sat with it, the more it felt like an allegory of ego itself. Every part mistakes being necessary for being central. Every voice confuses contribution with supremacy.
What makes this work so well is that you never become heavy-handed about any of it. The buttocks nearly steal the show. The feet are perpetually aggrieved. The middle finger is exactly who we expect him to be. Every part arrives with its own recognizable vanity, insecurity, grievance, or self-importance.
And then that involuntary slap lands like the perfect punchline and the perfect thesis at the same time. One part acts, another part suffers, nobody accepts responsibility, and somehow the scalp pays the price.
I finished this laughing, then thinking, then laughing again. That balance is difficult to achieve. You managed to turn a squabbling body into a surprisingly sharp meditation on interdependence, identity, and the strange human habit of believing we are the indispensable part of a much larger whole.
Brilliant! I am in awe again!
Thank you Dipti, I'm glad the humor landed, the world needed it. I'll refrain from any more comment, as I want to hear what people glean from this.
Allegory much? The dispute, the self importance…familiar in so many ways. And, very biblical in tone to the concept of the body of Christ. 1 Corinthians 12:15-21, which explains that all parts of the body are interconnected and equally necessary.
Great metaphor.
Thank you Mitch
Wow,love this 🫶
Thank you Hina!
Haha - Loved this Mike!
Glad the picture was of the fingers not butt cheek!
I love how even body parts need to work together to achieve harmony and balance. Who would have guessed things just work out better in life when that happens!
Thank you Mark
Absolutely Brilliantly done! 🙏🏻
Thank you Eleora
this is great looking forward to see where this goes my friend thank you for sharing
Thank you Aaron!
One of my (many) favorite lines: The thigh gave a sigh. 🤗
Thank you