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"A target of interest."
"A person of interest."
These are scary words,
Given the current state of
Surveillance & Security.
The means is there to conduct
War on a retail basis, focusing down to
Individual thought criminals
This is the greatest threat to our
Democracy today, God help us.
Orwellian, to be sure.
What's next? Philip K. ****'s
Minority Report?
"Women & cats
Will do as they please;
Men & dogs should relax &
Get used to the idea."
She was the type of girl who
Knew how to demand a man’s attention.
The smart ones gave her the best
They had, a full-service menu,
If you catch my drift?
They knew she’d reciprocate later,
Alligator, with the sweetest B.J.
This Side of Paradise,
(Forgive me, F. Scott)
Can you dig it, Mister?
We’re talking Mohammedan
Fantasy & Paradise here, Babaloo.
That’s the kind of girl she was, always
Screaming: “Attention Must Be Paid,”
Co-opting Mr. Loman, of course,
But unlike Willie, Ms. Hynde has a
Trevi Fountain full of Self-Esteem.
Going into the home stretch now,
Determined her last Act will be
Focused solely on Self-Actualization.
That’s the type she is.
“Won't do no good
To call the police.
Always come late,
If they come at all.”*

Thank you, Tracy.
Thank you for shining a light,
Drawing the world’s attention to the gulf
The gross variance in policing,
As it is practiced as we move from
One area of the city to another,
From one part of town,
Across the tracks to the
Wrong side of town,
Not the neighborhood where
Cops get out of the squad car after dark,
Ring your doorbell & politely remind you
Your garage door is open.
I refer, of course, to the same
Neighborhood with the best schools,
Libraries, public parks, and other
Fine & dandy amenities
Enjoyed by some its municipal citizens.

I send greetings from reality &
Say “Thank you, Tracy”again.
Now I’m hip to an area of town where
People have to shoot it out for themselves,
Where people contend with a
Quotidian Death Camp or Gulag,
A daily killing-field of extreme
Predatory desperation.
We’re taking a quintessential peek
Through a Social Psychologist’s lens,
Namely Abraham Maslow’s
“Hierarchy of Human Needs;”
Categorically speaking:
The ladder’s bottom-rung.
We’re talking basic human survival, here.
BTW I actually learned a lot in college, & besides:
*******! I’m a Harvard graduate.

One last time I say
“Thank you, Tracy.”
I actually learned & continue to learn a lot,
From getting high & listening to music.
Life at the bottom of the barrel?
Sloshing it up with the
So-called *“Dregs of Society,”

Which, by the way,
Would be a great name for a band.
Cue omniscient narrator:
Google "I want to Be a Pornstar.”
But I digress.
We were talking about a frightening alien planet,
A no-where place to be for
An intelligent young black girl,
Hoping for a fast car out of there.
And Trump--like Queeg--
On the stand, juggling steel ball bearings,
Rambling on, defending himself,
Trickling out, pinching off minutiae,
The Court Martial panel stunned,
The Naval Board of Inquiry
Had to just look away.
If I’d known you were coming,
I would have straightened up the place,
Stashed the empty wine bottles,
Trashed the roaches,
Baked a cake,
Gotten rid of the girl.
Donald J. Trump:
Say what you will, but
He’s the only guy out there
Asking the obvious questions,
Common sense questions like
“Why don’t Japan, South Korea &
The House of Saud, pay the USA for
Defending them militarily?”

We sustain their political status quo,
We put boots on their ground, &
We provide them gold-plated munitions of
Mass Devastation
(like Mass Destruction only worse.)
What do we get? Bupkis, as in
“Bupkis Mit Kaduchas"
באָבקעס מיט קדחת
Translating roughly to
“Shivering **** *****.”

The 2016 election truly highlights
A profound social shift taking shape,
A demographic division, similar to what
The 1960s called the Generation Gap.
Trump is anathema to most of our
Over-indulged, Millennial offspring;
Our privileged kids, a cohort of Americans children
Reared by blue-collar but college-educated parents,
Those of us who busted *** for our
Bourgeois lifestyle & discrete charm.
We were the Flower Children of the 60s.
We left Yasgur’s farm on a
Hallucinogenic carpet high but rudely
Crash-landed, a consequence of
Altamont Speedway,
Gasoline queues & shortages, &
Years of bipolar economics,
Replete with spinning gerbil wheel of
Double-digit inflation.
We went to work.
We got our **** together.
We settled down.
We gentrified.

Our kids?
They tell their friends they are house sitting,
But the place is the house they grew up in &
Their parents still live there.
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