I've started getting more political in my poems. If I recall correctly, this one is insanely verbose and may or may not earn me some red flags from the U.S. government. We'll see.

It's been a hot minute since I've posted any new Crooked Box Poems but, honestly, it's been a while since I've posted anything. I'm busy getting ready for the end of the semester, my upcoming trip to Germany (Steemit meetup anyone?), and finishing up Write Club. We're nearing the end of the final session! This is crazy and scary but it's so happening, whether I want it to or not. It looks like I'm staring a lot of endings in the mouth: the end of a two year relationship, the end of Write Club, the end of my sophomore year of College, and etc. I'll probably look for some new jobs for the summer.

Anyways, here's the poem, you lovely knuckleheads.

Fence Riders

_{I've never seen this movie, but I guess it looks interesting enough. Westerns are kinda depressing though, because you know that, chronologically, all the characters are dead now.}

slow to speak, with
sugar on my tongue and entertainment
latched about my wrists. my eyes
stuck to news casts, or
the ground, working beneath my toes.

i've got tar on my palms, so i'm
dissuaded from making a fist.

they call us militarists, but
since when did fence riders get anything done,
besides getting splinters in their crotch?
'artificial forcing' is an excuse for bucket throwers to keep
dipping dirty water out of white, rich, straight men's bank accounts.
while they sit on their pedestals,
sipping the wine crushed from the eyes of Amerikan workers.
they wear calluses about their necks and
cash them in for another yacht, or
another political endorsement so our prez says "Yes!"
to the machines of war that wage war upon ourselves, that
angel of death, taking our children,
oh, but they're taking our rights!
who are you to judge until you've looked down the sights of that AK
and
pictured the children's bodies that had
burst beneath a similar sight?

the tar lines my fingertips.
i'd rather keep a fist than let my country define my life.

i am slow to speak, but when i do, it shakes
bullets from their casings,
i've got sugar on my tongue, because
sweet tea is hella, but i'll spit it out when it's
time to get to work.
this entertainment will stay in its place if it doesn't
shake the ground upon which i stand, if it isn't an
instrument for war. my wrists are rubbed raw, but i left
that propaganda in pieces at the door my my church where
the God of everything roars against the blood that the earth has swallowed.
the newscasts can roll behind a blank television screen,
this ground at my feet is hallowed. i remove my sandals. i'm
watching the sky for rain while scoring the dirt,
collecting seeds,
nurturing plants for when the storm breaks
for the storm will break and your
kingdom will fall.
your people will awaken and we'll
collect a head for every household you've robbed blind in the
name of democracy, in the name of God.
"Jesus" sounds like profanity on your tongue and
"Liberty" is a poison that salivates down your silk shirt.
we'll rip that tongue from your evil head,
we'll pull that shirt from your body.

that tar you slapped into my hands is going to
end up down your throat. get real.

~

I would apologize for the anger behind this poem, but I can't. I'm so angry over a lot of things and God said anger is chill as long as it doesn't lead to sin. Well, considering our constitution says we have the right to overthrow a tyrannical government (since we are paying them, not the other way around) I guess that wouldn't be a sin.

Punk rock isn't dead, just the folks willing to do anything.

Phew. Okay, that's it from me.

I love you guys. Stay awake, watch the skies, and God bless. <3