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Akira Chinen Sep 2018
A crow never stole corn
   that the earth didn’t give freely
The man too often takes
  too much credit for what
    he puts down into the dirt
Wether it is a seed or a body
As if he alone made
  life sprout and grow
As if without him
   the earth would not be green
    the sky would not be blue
As if he himself is
  the very GOD he prays to
The man forgets his place
  when murdering the crow
   for nothing more
     than being a crow
Mistaking black beaks
  and black feathers
    and black eyes
  as things that must
    always be up to no good
A bird that is no good
  for anything but a target
    for his hate and fear
As if the crows heart
   was meant for nothing other
     than to give his bullets
        something to bite into
The man becomes something
   less and less
 every time he murders
    another crow
Akira Chinen Sep 2018
A blood red sunset drips over
the black asphalt city skyline
somewhere in a lost part of America

where the dream has
long been dead and buried
and hate and fear rule
the rural streets that are protected
by peace keepers
that practice ******
more often than upholding the law

It has been declared open season
on any crow the color
of a starless night sky
and the dove has become
a symbol of
to protect and serve
their own kind
birds of a feather
that cover for one another

justice is blinded
by the snow covered truth
and the color of corruption
is coincidentally the same
as the color of money

the poor have little choice
but to trade their bones
and their hopes
to the corporations
of the new land
of the free
to be owned by
and controlled by
a minimum wage
that only guarantees
to keep the poor
poor enough
  to work another day
    and another day
      and another day

until there bones are
nothing but powder
and their beds
are nothing but coffins
for the barely living

and life somewhere
in a lost part of America
at the end of everyday
the sky turns red
and the color of blood
runs through the streets
as the doves go along
with their business
of the murdering of crows
Sarah Clark Nov 2018
hope you are doing
well and have stopped
rebelling against our
founding father's
cautionary counsels.

risky over here,
still doing kudzu
in hot water and
lighting off firecrackers
in the pouring rain.
Ken Pepiton Oct 2018
Honest,

that meaningless word left dangling before children,

a damoclean sword held fast in a gordian knot tied with scarlet thread,

finer than the spider's that once tied men's souls to an angry American God,

birthed in Transylvania,

over the woods, and through the dale, no lie

There is a tale of lies told in Nobel houses, never reachin' ground,

Down here, we situations manifested to, vain, again, stem the tide,

We flounder, fish out of water, why are we sent if

wait



he hears, he listens, haps he knows, and

how such as we came

to be here,

Welcome and see, dare ye ask me in? Might I ply you with lies

and you, believe 'em?

I could make a mindless robot out of your parts, but

that would take forever and

that's not how

Wisdom's child would tend to be, for first,

You must believe a lie and I, amusing as can be,

can't tell lies.

Discernment, fine points, per-spicacity per se, the only way.

Good luck (Luc, said luck in many tongues, is said Lose- as in Luc-ifer.

It means light, as in light, regular old granted light.)

Lightifier, good, take some, good light, for the travail, in the night.



You see, not so long ago, for me, five years before I'as born,

my momma moved to town.



What was that like, I axed my old uncle, while back,

movin' t'town, in 1943?

Well, he says,

We had electricity.



USA, 1943, some folks still was poor, and all the good men

was gone to war.

Cities, it was different,

if the movies got it right, Bowry Boys, n'em.



In the desert we did, okeh, in town, though,



we had electricity.



He was ten back then. He'd been huntin' rabbit's,

to buy Christmas presents from Sears and Roebucks,



since he was five.

C'mon, I say. No lie, he say,

BLM or some gover'ment

whatsajigger, was payin' 2 cents a pair fer jack rabbit ears.



'Said he bought Christmas presents for his mom and dad,

and my mom, with his first rabbit money, at five.



Shootin' with a single-shot 22, 12 cents a box,

Jack Rabbits, 2 cents a head.



Three Christmas presents, plus postage, $2.56.

Do the math, I think, and go -



Five years old, at ten, he moves to town, 1943,

we had electricity. That's all.
An older man than me gave a thought to ponder. Thought I'd try to share the bounty. This is read, by me at http://anchor.fm/ken-pepiton
Juan Bot Feb 23
Little John lived up the hill.
Where the birds flew under his legs
and the dust rolled off his porch.

John would not live to meet the gaze
of a tall woman,
Shaniqua.

Her braids flapped in the direction of the wind.
Her cheeks turned red when he saw little John's shadow.
Her eyes began tearing when she saw little John's body,
Arms sprawled over the top of the hill,
As if hugging Mother Earth.

A parallel line of red gashes surround his back.
Slavery is never good.
Juan Bot Feb 26
The boy walked to the store.
The boy wanted a smore.

He asked the store owner, and the store owner said,
HES BLACK. HE NEEDS TO BE DAED!!

Why is the world so racist? SMH :(

If you laughed at this, you should be ashamed at yourself.
Racism is bad.

— The End —