White Police

Yin expects the yang to
yield, the younger
wielding strength to
balance the playing fields,
but never
opportunity.

How did we go from
relative lunacy to all-out character
assassination, eyes and
anger of a nation suddenly
declaring
smoking guns?

How is the pitchfork swung?
How do the spiked clubs
fall?

How are
those bruises?
how about them cuts?

Are they
hopeless as
happenstance and
happy
as
cunts?

Do you feel any safer than
you did before, if you ever
have at all?

If you’re like me, you feel small like quail, collared and tracked, pursued and surveilled.

You feel failed with every unfilled pot hole, intercity toll and cold snap that strikes us. And you feel the rush hour in your gut, hitting every red on the way to never giving a fuck again. If you’re like me, remortgaging my life span for the handjob of twelve cents an hour more, you’re bored enough to rock the boat.

But fuck it, I’m building a rapport here,
and getting fat along the way.

I’m sure there will
come a day I
eventually float.

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