Walking the double yellow line down the center of Bigelow Blvd
Surrounded by armored law officers like statues of Chinese warriors
All Plexiglas and hard plastic on one side, and the picture messaging
Throngs college students wearing t-shirts advertising records that

Were 20 years old when they were born 20 years ago. And all
Standing around to be engaged in gawking at 20 world leaders
The 20 people who lead the world, and not one voice is angry with that.
Kent St. taught us well that living under occupation is better

Than not living at all. I can hardly believe my silent eyes: the passé
Passiveness of those set up to fall the furthest! Lord! Where is the fire?
When will sirens rip us all back into the fleeting realization of what it means
To fucking live? Must I be the one to walk, bomb strapped and primed, into

These newly fenced off streets and detonate one million suicide notes all
Over the faces and hands of these present? This is my flesh, unto thee, to
Wake the fuck up from salvation and find the peace that comes along with
The ultimate knowledge of being alive! This is my blood on the psyche of

A weak nation, afraid to face the fact that everywhere else in the world
People aren’t afraid to die for the things they believe! That they’re not
Defending their houses to save their flat screens! Give me the poor, the tired, and
We’ll throw a party to end all suffering! We’ll throw all prejudice into the pitcher

And drink until it’s gone! Then rub ourselves against each and every one else
Until all our children look the same and no one is interesting. Or we can sit and scream
Our differences at one another until we fall, laughing, into one unified voice
Rising above the institutional towers! And in the small harmonious groups that form,

We will move into the remaining woodlands and find deer and rabbits and fish
And corn and wheat that are still natural and we can hunt and gather and eat
And dance and sleep and live freely. We can live as real living things do.

But these high-tech kids, and these ironclad cops, and these marionette dignitaries,
And the everyday shmoes have fallen to believing they too are alive or, worse yet,
Free, in the financially driven whirlpool of this clogged cultural drain.

It is time to start pushing at the disruptive mass, or
We’ll all drown in the diseased sanctuary of this stagnant pool, where
No one can afford both a life raft and medical attention,

A deadly choice, deciding how to live.

No comments:

Post a Comment