i wish i could put my fist
through this wretched city,
march straight down Monroe
to the capitol building—
that flaccid, *******, hideous tower
looming like the tomb of god
over Tallahassee.

this bastion of neoliberalism
sits in the heart of a red state.
escalating rent and gentrification
go hand-in-hand on occupied Muskogee lands.
statues commemorating genocidal colonizers
defended by neo-Confederate bootlickers
keep watch over Martin Luther King, Jr. Blvd.
everywhere you look in this college town
you’ll find indigeneity reduced to a mascot.

so let’s introduce a little anarchy.
we’ll clash with riot cops
armed with tire-irons and Molotovs.
occupy the academy, transform the cafeteria
into a people’s kitchen. teach freely
on Landis Green. come, dance
with abandon and reclaim these tired streets
from those beset on our alienation.

This is a verse for George
This is a poem for Philando
This is a memory of Oscar
Continuing the fight for Malcolm
Venerating the wisdom of Martin
This is a call to action
Even if just a fraction
Causes this cause to gain traction
For people tired of the inaction
The people have spoken
And decades have passed
Nothing has changed
Protesters still getting gassed
With years behind them
Trying to stay quiet
One ******
Two murders
A thousand
It's no surprise
That this protest is now a riot
Flames flitting in and out of frame
Guns glinting
as bootlickers offer more of the same
Tin badges holding themselves
As above the rest of us
I scream in disgust
What gives you the right
To ****** my neighbors?
What gives you the right
To brutalize my friends?
These fires ignite a memory
And makes me sing
Noting the similarity
To Martin,
and also Rodney king
I'll stop now
My angry rambling
I'll leave you with a quote
Most would think
It was said by Malcolm
But it was said by Dr. King
It's not absurd
He said it
"A riot is the language of the unheard"
That is the wisdom of Martin
That's why we continue to fight for Malcolm
That's why I remember Oscar
I wrote this poem for Philando
I wrote this verse for George

get out with your grocery lists
your tickets for my trip to hell
don't shop here, you *******
you big box small mind bootlickers
is what I want to say
but all I say is
beep
beep
beep
4011
would you like the bananas in a separate bag?
your total is 26.78
have a nice day

I tip my hat to the contempt of corrupt government
but please don't mistake that as being against a collective good
I am an anarcho-socialist cause the proliferation of the individual is only possible in a welfare society
All you capitalist bootlickers will hustle yourself back to serfs
or worse
Where the noble few are the only ones to live free

Now they propagandize you with a promise
you can join their game and be a Capitalist too
Yet the unworking economic royalists
will not abdicate their thrones
So they want you to be grateful for all they provide
a chance to labor under them and be dazzled with distractions
which serfs of the past could never know
Slow economic mobility to a halt
They want a return to Victorian deference above all

Huey Long° was the kind of fellow
You wouldn't double cross.
He ran his state as though he was
A genuine mob boss.

Bootlickers and flatterers
On whom he could rely
Helped him gain his wealth and power.
That you can't deny.

He stacked his government with folks
Who'd answer only to him.
His dissenters found themselves
Out on a shaky limb.

Hey, Huey,
We all know
The things you did
So long ago.
Your power grabs
Were tried and true.
We know someone
Much like you.

Harnessing the discontent
Of people was his plan.
His gift of gab as a populist
Made him a popular man.

His cadre of guards sufficiently armed
Made him feel quite smug.
Although he got things done, he was
Essentially a ****.

Taking control of elections, he
Sidestepped prosecution.
With power on display, he'd declare,
"I am the Constitution."

Hey, Huey,
We all know
The things you did
So long ago.
In a way
You primed the pump
And set the stage
For Donald Trump.

Calling himself "the Kingfish," Huey
Found corruption handy.
Power, control, and kickbacks were
His modus operandi.

Reporters whom he didn't like
Were ones he would abuse.
They'd be beaten, and he'd call
Their papers "lyinnews."

A glimpse of how a strongman would
Appear in the U.S.A.
Was Huey Long's rehearsal for
A dictatorship today.

Hey, Donald
We see through
All the things
You've tried to do.
Although this
Is NOT your song,
You're a lot
Like Huey Long.

-by Bob B (5-6-24)

°40th governor of Louisiana and U.S. senator from 1932 until his assassination in 1935.