Thursday, August 14, 2014


it's the levels 
as if someone
tipped the plate too far, bumbling and
curious fingers 
in a museum, 

do not touch

lips on your neck like a 
wobbling ellipse,  magician's plate 
dipping [just a bit] too low

the crowd gasps

there are policemen firing bullets
into the cheeks of citizens.
an endless cycle of white men 
killing black men.
the levels, the tipping points-
the streets have cracked,
and there is no going back


thrown out of orbit and hurling towards 
a friendly star with heat rays and 
drawn on by tiny fingers that still believe 
that a sun
can smile.

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