Can Slogans Slow Guns ?
I am not the source of any river. The inner spring flooding is more you than me. I hear the syllables that left your early dreams. An entire line floats on the skin of the wind. There was a time the color of that skin was sure. Unquestioned. Now the air is escaping the balloon. Black ink on white paper is a chain of consequence. Discretion is the better part of banter. Monks, chanting in the streets, twirl on the fingertips of angels. Police batons conduct perverse music. We, and there is a we, don’t require clouds of gas to cry in a crowd.
The never before has come again. Imagine justly has won the coin flip. The false eclipse is illumed by spray paint. Sheer numbers, at last, cut to the quick. Two faced intentions refuse the mask. Actions mirror the glass ceiling. The thorn emerges as the rose blooms. Books on the doorstep, like the sun on brown stones, turn the page, name by name of the murdered, the newly elected, the historians of grief, the singers preceding an army and a long untested litany of kindness.
One size planet fits all. We are but six feet from the truth. Pedestrian logic measures the miles it takes to breathe free. Bumper sticker logic careens through the crowd. The future is something the dead wished we earned. Closing the distance between two lines of thought is a learned response. It takes one to know one more than who we started with, a sunset suggests an adjustment to distant lights, mourning is sure to confound the auto-correct.
