Sick of the lie
And I mean the BIG lie

Sick of the talk
&
Sick of the sight

Let it be said
I was a lyrical blade at the neck of the right
I was a lyrical needle that entered the temple and opened the mind

Interim lord of the flies

Erecting a Hall To The Dead
In a culture of trauma survivors
Who struggle each day to survive

Held under pressure by suited oppressors
who peddle in blame
with a little bit of victim-shame on the side

Can’t quite measure the spite each day
when you find that you’ve opened your eyes

In a nation refusing to honor
the worth of your life

In a nation refusing to lessen
the wealth of a handful
to wash off the stains of our poverty lines

But they’re happy to tweet on the issues
and Pat themselves all on the back
for the Bill they designed,
with zero intention to sign,
but all too content to soak up
all the media shine.

Like a Bomb Squad only reporting
to find the device,
and state that they found the device.
Watch the device.
Publicly shame and denounce the device. Tweet every day on the risk that could rise
and then land on the cover of Vogue
for their fearlessness , power, and style
while facing that awful device.

And behind closed doors,
they can laugh with that awful device,
they can shake hands with that very device that eats millions of struggling Americans’ lives

And one day, when it blows sky-high,
they can wring all their hands
at the tool kit sitting nearby
with a manual walking them through
the disarming and proper disposal
and all point fingers and all place blame
over why it had never been tried.

But if all of us hostages had those tools,
we would not think twice.

Instead we were left in the dark
with our hands all tied
They bring a few ball gags once in a while,
and we open our mouths,
and we don’t ask why.

A few don’t mind.
A few start cheering the silence
who view it as some kind of positive sign.

And a few shout prayers to a squad
that had sworn they were here to help,
and they were on our side.

And suddenly we could hear
vehicles come up the drive,
we saw the flashing of lights,
we thought that help had arrived,
only to find,
There was a media frenzy to see
AOC wear her hair to the side,
and Kamala Harris was not in attendance,
but she sent her shoes in a bulletproof limo with heavy security detail
that all of our taxes
were gracious enough to provide.

And along with her warmest regards
she sent a surprise:
A shipment of muzzles, and gags,
and all of them signed:

“Cheer for your Squad, or Shut Up & Bite!”
~President Harris

That’s what I’ll read
through the tears in my eyes
while I’m opening wide

Accepting my penance
for daring to warn that the squad
will be cutting your heat in the night
before they take a blade to those wires.

And our only hope
to dismantle their precious device
is in snipping the red AND the blue
cause they’re fully entwined.

To cut out the red and the blue in our minds,
Wherever we find.

So Here’s to Combining our hands,
And cutting the line.

Here’s to denying the motor the oil
it needs to be primed

Here’s to a wrench in the gears of your capital, hearing it grind,

Here’s to the feeling of loosing your collar,
and breaking your binds

Here’s to the bliss of forgetting your number,
and knowing it’s fine.

Knowing your name.

Living your life for a purpose
beyond someone’s profits
of which your retirement
Warrants a hollow ‘farewell’
and equivalent gift of a dime.

Here’s to the bliss of us cutting the line.

Like President Harris, I’m biding my time.

Here’s to the promise of breaking our binds.