Locust, May 4, 1970

 

The pictures are black and white,

but even though the passions

are embers, I still see them

as green, with black dead eyes.

Some of them have taken off

their masks and turned away,

but the fury in the black faceless

eyes of the others is real, and empty.

There’s a kid off to the side

flipping them the bird; I think

he bought a bullet for his trouble.

The pictures are all black and white,

but even though the passions are

embers, I still see them as red.

Red pools in the parking lot

flowing down to the rain-gutter

over a hundred fucking yards away

from the damn Guard and their rifles.

They are only pictures, only embers.

God help the breeze that fans them.

 

first published in Wind Row, Spring, 1984.

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About johnsmithiiimxiii

John Smith, IIMXIII is the avatar of an award winning poet, artist, etc. who still lives in the Palouse country of the Pacific NW. He has not received much notice with his prose . . . but as his avatar, I hope that he keeps plugging along.

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