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.
Tarnished Silver 