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Carlo C Gomez Oct 2022
Mondays in Van Nuys:
velvet morning, bee stings,
and medicating angels
wrapped in mesh,
at the scene of a fugitive motel,
swimming towards
*** and misery.

Nicotine lizard
fresh from film school,
and his molten young
with corduroy legs,
scouting for girls
any way, shape, or form,
pinpointing them
in alphabetical order.

Flashing red light means go:
pretty Eve in the tub,
lit from underneath,
she sun shines,
her back to the prehension
from a survey of hands
and power tools.

No tan lines,
the boundaries of
this celluloid garden
begin at her knees
--a fleshprint,
start the Van de Graaff
and watch as she reels
the far faded whispers
of carnal quicksand.

A smell of peroxide and sweat,
her constant freezing
and thawing
totally crushed out,
the dark don't hide it.

Candy Bar
--it's not her real name,
but she smiles like
she means it,
lying is the most fun a girl
can have without taking
her clothes off.

Once again
the week gets lost in repeat:
a certain smile,
a certain sadness,
look on the bright side,
this isn't happiness.
In this world of capitalism,
we're driven by consumerism.
We act out of a sense of entitlement.
At times, we order others like a servant.

We think we deserve our rights,
and just for that we'll fight.
Just so that we can win,
We'll raise our voice and create a scene.

In our competitive society,
There is so much emphasis on productivity.
We end up becoming exploitative.
Can the outcome really be positive?

We need to think carefully,
if we can live with ourselves comfortably,
when most of our gain,
is built on another's pain.

Perhaps we should really see,
that we're not much different.
You and Me.
There's so much more that we could be.

Be the change that you want to see.  
To others, they might be somebody:
A daughter, a sister, a lover, a wife.
Please give some honour to their life.
In a society where we have migrant workers and domestic maids in our homes, waiters and waitresses serving us at tables, factory workers who are exploited to produce the very clothes we wear. It is a productive society, where people are valued for what they produce, not who they are. Let us start by being the difference, to give each and every person respect, despite their position, to restore more humanity to our society.
Billie Marie Jul 2021
The interviewer, who was white,
asked the indigenous man, who had dark brown skin,
What was most important in life to them.
'Them' - as if the man and his people were any different
than the interviewer and his.

This was after the man had shown them
(the interviewer and the cameraman)
his entire village - the homes,
where the women forage for food
and how the men hunt for meat.

The man knew what the interviewer was really asking.
Yet he also knew that the interviewer already knew
the answer to his own question - even if he had hidden it from himself,
even if he had no faith and trust
in his own culture’s answer to the question.
Still, the interviewer knew the answer for himself.
And the man knew also,
like everyone who is being filmed and interviewed,
that when someone asks you for your very essence,
it is never only a passing request.
They mean to do something with it at some point.
You see, the indigenous man doesn’t go around
interviewing white people.
He is living his life.

So, when the interviewer asked this question,
“What is most important in life to them?”
A shadow of remembrance passed across the man’s eyes.
And smiling, he replied, “Meat!”
The interviewer, looking perplexed, repeated, “Meat?”
and thought, 'Well, that’s a given.'
And in a tone that suggested
what he really wanted to say
was, 'Duh, what else is important here on Earth?'
The man replied, “Yes, with meat we become strong and healthy.
No one will go hungry.
Children will grow strong and run fast.
Women will be strong and there will be less sickness.
Women will give birth to healthy, strong babies.”

The interviewer’s face reflected blank ignorance
as he again repeated, “Meat?”
And with eyes that said, 'Now let it go.
You will not get from me
what your grandfather took from mine',
the man turned to his son and said,
“We will go hunt now.”
Dr K S Bhardwaj Apr 2021
Aggrieved By The Ecological Loss
Worried About The Nature They Say,
"Vultures Are Now Extinct,"

Amused I Said,
"No Friend, No.
They Are Still There,
The Difference Is Only This,
They Have Grown Arms
Instead Of Wings."
Today People Are Worse Than Vultures. Vultures Waited For The Dead, But The People Prey Upon Alive.
Dinara Tengri Feb 2021
My hair is not a raven's wing,
A wave of black, a river whose
treacherous shores
you long to explore.

My ******* are no doves: soft and fluttering;
No Promised Land of milk and honey:
there is no one to welcome you home.

My stomach is not a valley of wonders
leading to a treasure so many men
have died for.

My eyes are not slanted windows to some
ancient Eastern wisdom; no obsidian pools
that many great warriors have drowned in.

My features are not exotic
My skin is not silken
My soul is not unknowable
My mind is not inscrutable
And my body is not your muse.
preston Jan 2021
Beautiful gouls, they seem
to be,  as they shuffle  
along the walkway,
late at night.  Hooded
and unassuming..
sometimes,  barely seen
avoiding possibly,  even
the pain  that the very light
of day, can so very often  bring.

There is a horrible  undoing
of what once  was
in order to leave  for them
what now is.

And when
there was a gold
to be found
in these hills  of black..
the non-ancestral  hearts  
that so clearly, lack

the humanity that tried to stop
the very same thing  that had
happened  in the east:

    the crave  for gain
    caused these tears of pain--
    and a glympse into the true
    nature  of the beast.

No more songs of the hunters
on the buffalo plain,
no more smoke from sacred fires
touch these hills.
And the numbers of the people
grow fewer every mile
and our children will not learn
Great Spirit's ways.

On the streets of Rapid City,
on the road to Wounded Knee,
there is whiskey for forgetting
every thing.
But the old ones say
there may be time
of learning from each other
the way that it had once
been meant to be.

But there is still a trail of tears,
there is still a trail of pain.
Jackson has got the Mississippi
and the twenty-dollar bill
but for us  
the trail of tears is all
that will remain.
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