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Austin Heath Jan 2017
Dangerous times nearing midnight. Every day opens with fresh blood or ink drying down our throats, "...and I Must Scream.", Harlan Ellison [1967]

Honeycombs of humanity sink into themselves and form a thick syrup they claim will cure our ailments, but still tastes like Third *****™ nationalism.  They burn our shelters and chant, "Home."

Resistance looks strange. People aren't choking on gag orders, they're going around the wall, but hundreds are behind bars for protest, or still getting killed on the streets, or getting hosed down in the cold for advocating clean water. They're putting bounties on antifascists.

We beat that ***** Richard Spencer, but we're yet to strike the one in the White House.

Rattlesnakes under our heels, we've grown into something fiercer.
Something deadlier.
Pearson Bolt Nov 2016
i’ve long dreamt
of black flags in the streets
tonight i marched beneath
the shadow of their wings

shoulder-to-shoulder
in hope and solidarity
an anarchist professor
with a climate change activist
an independent journalist
and one of my students

as mid-November winds tugged
at her pink-and-brunette hair
she lifted a hand-drawn sign
of a gigantic sneaker
smashing a ****
and i felt
for not the first time
an enormous sense of pride

how humbling to at once
inspire and be inspired by
an eighteen-year-old
punk and artist
who asked to borrow
The Moral Imperative of Revolt
two scant months ago
then took to the streets
to oppose and depose
a twisted fascist virtuoso

for two whole hours
we hundreds owned the streets
we marched down Rosalind
Central and Orange Avenue
as protest slogans rang angelic
we raised **** and found heaven
in liberty equality and solidarity

but then the pigs closed in
cordoned to Lake Eola
to scream acquiescent rhetoric
at the fish sleeping
blissful in their innocence
beneath the jet black surface

a half-dozen cops in riot gear
astride horses loomed
ominous before us
backlit by the headlights
of the aggravated motorists
our march had forestalled

as the people abandoned the streets
we’d won so easily
i felt my chest wilt beneath
the weight of forsaken opportunity
my eyes scanned the remaining crowd

four stood strong
rooted to the concrete
by the world's weight
anchored by conviction
an anarchist professor
an independent journalist
a climate change activist
and a freshman college student

i heard the professor whisper to his student
i heard him say she'd put herself in harm’s way
that they'd lost the day when the marchers
turned their backs and walked away
but she didn’t flinch or move an inch
she stood silent and vigilant
shoulder-to-shoulder
chin held almost as high
as her ****-smashing protest sign
and her matching *******

and in that moment
i could’ve died
smiling
This poem is not about me. Quite the contrary, this poem is about my brave student. An absolute champion.

— The End —