Mob rules:
Horned and bare-chested,
the barbarians storm the capital
while
out in the bay
sailboats come loose off their moorings and
careen into rocky shoals.
Off in the distance
sirens wail
slicing through no-sound, howling at no-moon.
Jaws drop on a masked populace
as the rude Emperor lowers his pants and bare bawls it
outta the building.
Freedom fighters raised by horror TV
dress in merchandise and furs to
infect comrades and
inflict chaos.
From inside the mob, a
woman is shot down.
Her limbs splayed,
carpet crimsoned:
A star, spangled.
I’m on the road
incredulous
as the radio spits out
these riddled headlines.
Windshield wipers useless, furious
against the surrounding fog.
A grouse careens through frosty trees
cut short by the twin swords of
my high beams.
On the side of the highway
under grandma’s crocheted afghan
another lumpen body sleeps it off
disenfranchised: no belongings, no belonging.
As I, you, everyone in the world
scream by in our
burning chariots.
Char-Red
Char-Riots.
American
Epiphany:
O say
can you
see
?