Leaders trade seats. Transfer
mediocrity with slick tongues,
crossed fingers. The people
still flip channels. Fighting for
better masters momentarily
soothes troubled souls. Empire
eats, belches, and says thank you.
“They like to be ruled, hood-
winked, bamboozled,” Tunde
says. The disenfranchised suffer.
Marginalized groups pull on
fatigues, black leather boots.
Dismantling this funky machine
requires feet to stand on squares.
Drones find targets. Conflicts
stretch legs—people swipe left.
The American way tilts his brim,
wipes fresh blood from his cracked
lips. Attitudes check behaviors
at doors. Suppressed tempers
surrender to the hustle. The people
fix their uniforms—a tribe of bots,
carrying iPhones. “Harm Reduction
is a real finesse, an elaborate hoax
to disarm seething radicals, neutralize
hot blood,” I say. Red-tinted sky
breathes for some. A privileged shade
of blue appears for others. The House
wins again and again and AGAIN.
A polluted structure refuses to heel,
a rabid dog flashing teeth, a dream
admiring hostile fingertips. Wake
up! Wake up! Wake up! Sleep has
an appetite! The machine needs
a jutting, blues-like belly—culture.
Hunger is halted. Thirst is satiated.
Savagery smolders. Democracy
hums blues and misses no meals.
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