there is blood in the streets
and dripping from the slick soles of shoes
of the smiling old men
who sell souls and buy lunch,
who never see and who
never stop smiling.
there is blood in the streets
and flaking like rust from the walls
of the banks and the prisons,
staining the palms
of the rich and the ruthless.
there is blood in the streets,
a graveyard full of my friends
and a holy battlefield
where kids with bandanas and baseball bats
fight for their lives and for those
whose guts stain the whole city red.
there is blood in the streets,
and the rich white men build themselves bridges
so far above the red running river
that they can call this peace.
there is blood in the streets,
but all you can see is a trash can on fire
and the scattered shards of shattered glass.