Avoid cosplay by any means.
Ten toes down. Actors can’t live
here. As an Orange tyrant drives
a filthy machine through traffic,
hoping to convert sleepy people
into patriotic minions. Toxic. Life
in the margins is lit and smoky.
Climb levels of wokeness. Bold.
Both parties got blues in their
veins. Angry birds don’t fly straight.
Neither do pigs. Kendrick yells,
“they are not like us,” dreaming
’bout revolution. Never stand
down for social media trends.
Clever filters will never answer
the call. Let them gas lighters
celebrate the smell of inaction
and the mounting pressure
playing outside. OUTSIDE separates
the active from those who change
profile pictures and call it rebellion.
In the streets? ALL IN (maybe).
Assess the flaws later. Maybe
John Brown’s spirit will appear
next time they flood concrete
and scream No Kings. Flash!
Online? Them small time revolutions
don’t get played, don’t get
aimed, don’t get airtime around
real rebels and shamans and fire
eaters and fire breathers and
people on rare forms of demon
time. Let Gil Scott say Amen
and spit 16 bars for actual change.
Political theater is death. Not the
highest good. The same goes for
policing protesters’ ambitions.
Nobody has a monopoly on the
WAY, especially as empire lurks,
creeps, and hungrily eats
each DAY.
THANKS FOR READING! SPREAD THE WORD AND SUBSCRIBE TO MAILBOX WEEKLY!
