Old Glory, a poem

Old Glory

Old Glory? Oh. No.

Chattel still.

Handcuffs are the new chains 

As racism reigns

and stars rain

Down as you stomp out their breath

and beat their heads

Until they are dead

Red

The lashes across skin, bleeding fresh

Red, white, and blue-black

Eyes puffy and bruised,

Used

to seeing this shit

Again and again and again.
A gain ever? Never.
Scars and bars forever.

Heavens.

To Betsy, you didn’t know.

You were sewing a shroud

For all their kin.

How well it covers up all that sin.

And patriotic permits
on uniformed arms
To bear arms,
With license to kill,

Shoot at will,
Choke until still.

Dear white people,

Oh say, can’t you see?
This is not everyone’s land of the free.

You fly that shit in our face 

And then not want us to take a knee?

Glory, glory, hallelujah...

FML, a poem

It's sad when I only write in my blog when I'm stuck at the library with nothing better to do. Here's an attempted poem to amuse and bemuse one and all:

At the library
with nothing to do
but type

Words on a screen
scream my ennui
in silence

On a computer that
needs my card number
to log in

Three attempts before
it worked
As if somewhere the truth lurked

elusive in binary code
the one-oh-one-oh-one of a poem
a cursor that begs to move

forward slashing virgin screen
with lettering
pregnant with meaning

scheming rhymes and iambic pentameter
forgive me
I know not what they do

Writing is a faith
a religion
bound by doctrines

Of stylistic hand books
Funk & Wagnells jerk offs
MLA can kiss my ass
APA stick to your couch

Holy books
Hole-y books
Whole books
of words

That mean nothing
Existential angst of bookworms
as they chew on that

Typing away in a library
playing with words
bored out of my mind.