Pulling Up with a Finger on the Trigger

 

Police Brutality

And the sirens are blaring

ORWELLIAN MEN will wear your skin

And dance to Dolly Parton

The Ole Poke Salad Anny.

Their uniforms are blue

With bruises.

I don’t need divine kaleidoscope

To recognize the patterns.

I fired my hit man,

Instead I’ll try 911

The emergency lane has turned

To an ash tray at the bus stop,

An institution in waste management.

We keep our eyes up, holding

Our fear close

Like a handbag

Only briefly glancing

At the malnourished, mashings,

“justice” against the pavement.

Brushing lost

Cents under the rug, best hidden away from guests.

And the people search

for security in legislation:

To pray to vacant skies

Worse

To worship a vindictive God.

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