PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Streets are ablaze in Baltimore;

apathetic windbags distracted by their

intelligent devices fan flames

hungering for justice, and

pour judgmental gasoline on the white-hot embers.  

The resulting inferno of rage engulfs the local,

corporate pharmacy!  LISTEN --

the voices on the wind are not

just those of the trees!  

Your brothers and sisters are crying,

"Please help me!"  Citizens march

with peace as their only shield,

ghosts of haunting perspective their only weapons,

from streets stricken by the plague of poverty

to avenues lined with perverse privilege.  

This is the first time in centuries our nation

has witnessed red and blue unite for justice,

yet Faux News sources spew rhetoric

of violent intentions -- meanwhile,

dem Republicans siphon greenbacks during free lunches,

in exchange for ignoring institutionalized violence,

and Democrats are reppin' a different colored set

of ethics that amount to the same ignorance.  

The hum of Mother's lullaby pacifies your mind...

Keep up the routine.

Streets are on fire in Ferguson.  

But your Rorschach face contorts to disgust,

and you don't even whisper, "No."  

Streets sizzle with the flesh of the dead,

and you let your silence speak volumes,

decibels tightly coiling around you

like a comforting straight-jacket.  

When the damage is done,

and your molten ignorance dries ashen husks left behind,

you will abandon cold 'logic'

as the boot comes for your throat.  

Your own pleas for mercy will bubble

up to the surface of your corrupted lips,

your esophagus clogged with 'trivial'

cries of innocence, choking life from you.  

The buzz of Mother's lullaby muffles

your voice...

Past silence is future compliance.

Streets are burning in Ohio,

and so are your judgments.  

Seared across timelines that pinned

white, blue, black, gold dresses and

gracious compassion for ALS,

you are ironically out of character

or finally revealing, depending on

the light.  

This isn't righteous comeuppance brother;

you will not receive silence in response to

your call because what goes around comes around.  

No, you will be deafened by the echoes of past cries,

because that will be all that surrounds you -- past

lives already pushed aside, killed,

or in cages waiting for your warmth.  

There will be no free men to save you.  

Because you use your freedom to cage you.  

The melody of Mother's lullaby articulates

the bars you have yet to define...

Think inside the box.

Remember these truths

as Mother whispers own swan song -- death

is on the tips of her forked tongue;

she tastes the air for signs

of compassionate warmth.  Danger

is at the tip of her middle finger,

moving riot gear soldiers to quell

the rising chorus of revolution.  

Her reflective eyes gaze upon her nation

of drones, conducting a symphony of destruction

disguised as progress; she would smile,

if she had lips.  Her hair sweeps

over destitute streets, replacing bankrupt souls and homes

with bank-rolls of those whom march to the beat

of her syncopated heart.  

The ringed iris of her third eye echoes

into the air, transmitting pulsating waves of

calcifying indifference into antennas intended

for cosmic collection.  

Her aluminum dress adds a layer to

the atmosphere, a literal ceiling preventing ascension.  

She claims no nationality; her features lack

definition, save for the burning desire

of our own destruction.

Our streets are on fire,

ablaze with passion and empathy --

will you fan the flames,

or pour gasoline?

CLF 2015