New Blend for the Old World


We know (well now) the populace (that is to say, the people), don’t rise up in arms simply ‘cuz a person is murdered – not for any reason.

There is a list of ingredients which must be measured exactly before a riot or a wellspring is to occur.
We also know well,
the results of the recipe are more catastrophic than plentiful
and that in fact
the finished product can leave a bitter taste,
a pill swallowed unwillingly
into the mouths of the reluctant

There have been many murders of people by the police
in as many days as I’ve drawn breath in this year alone
it feels like waiting.

Some wait for the first tipped police car, and others wait for the government
to put its magic pen upon the paper and offer to us a rigid line that ought not be crossed
there are those near a stove or a bar, in the bus – in the middle of it – waiting for a shift
a wind to blow the hat off of thee
desperate to keep it on a wind to reveal the baldness
a wind to be expelled in relief of the truth, bright on the dome of the new day!

The young and old and infirmed and sex-differentiated die by candle and moon and bomb
and daylight,
their corpses strewn about – strips of carne asada on a pile of white
headlines stream the news
in one eye and out the other and still; waiting.

For sickness and disease, riddled through and through and again into the ether and still and still and still and through
again There is no waiting like death

For grief and bow broken, bullet spent and virus loaded

Tiny paw on hot roof, burnt.
There is no waiting like that for the magical miracle bellowing full steam, waiting not
For the rest of the page to follow and fold,
sail, adrift in a cavernous space of rot

While, away , the phantoms of yesterday’s lynched sons and daughters morph
into the undone bounty of a millionaire’s pocket, chaining they unto the master’s coffin,
to be remembered and dug up again,
old corpse and new blend
matching carpet


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