Can You Hear the Music?

There ain’t no music tonight,

It stopped again,

we are lost in a swirl,

fog of hate & vitriolic acid.

We want to believe 

our lives have changed

to look past the hate.

~

We are fed too well,

looking at streets in chaos

while a reporter

freshly coifed,

looking pretty,

expresses the horror,

across the street.

~

ACROSS THE STREET!

~

Have you ever wondered

just why,

just how easy it is

to post a remark,

to tweet a reaction,

to snapchat our own demise

of what remains of the

human condition?

~

Could we care about Ferguson

rather than hope  

for more, highlights,

news fillers,

and yet in the middle of all the pain,

‘we’re going to take a short break’

that’s when the music begins,

soothing, pleasant, with political overtones,

sort of mind-fu… oh, wait a second

that’s censored.

~

Can we use this to start a race riot?

Perhaps then we might,

listen,

perhaps when everyone has beaten

the snot out of each other,

few people ‘die’ on

national television.

~

Might it be possible

to start a new dialogue? 

~

How many weeks will it take to forget 

about the source …

Michael, Mike, Black kid, 

attach the proper terms,

robbery, assault, hatred,

what’s his name,

what does it matter?

might as well be 

Rodney King.

~

sing a little song.

Ferguson, USA

ferguson1

I was walking alone down a city street the other day,

I didn’t have to dodge rubber bullets along the way.

 

One afternoon while the sun shone bright across the sky,

Bicycles and para-sails wafted freely without asking why.

 

When I wake up in the morning I will drive on a road,

Without ever-wondering why I’m stopped and not told.

 

I’ve heard there is a cause to fight for the loss of a young man,

But tonight, I’m afraid we only seem to care about ‘the man.’

 

If you stop to tell me that he was shot to death in cold blood,

I’ll look you in the eye and remind you I no longer care to flood

 

My mind with realistic reasons to have a violent time at night.

I just want to use his death to further my desire to give slight

 

To what it is our authority is trying so hard to ascertain.

That’s not to say a skeptical eye toward you I will maintain,

 

You the man, the one that stands in the way of my free walk home,

You the man, the one when race is spoken, you ring in our tome.