Dinner on the Orb
I witnessed the anonymous populace
Enter The Third Orb Restaurant.
Upon gathering,
Their words,
The eruptions from assassins,
Assailed our oxygen.
Upon gathering,
Diplomacy stumbled
Over War’s pummeled leg.
I witnessed them
When rapport
Joined the floor.
These patrons from Satan's matrons
Sate their bellies’ weight
On altercations.
I witnessed them
Gnaw each other to slaw.
They chewed open grief
And experienced brutish relief.
I witnessed them
Act wolfish
About their favorite dish--
Broiled anguish.
They chomped on violence,
Eating any marrow's pittance.
Bloodstains were ample
At their tables.
A truce was never favored.
A truce was never savored.
The Brood Combat Begat
Lobbyists, politicians
And green lawn automatons
Thirst for one beverage.
The beverage is unaverage.
The beverage requires carnage.
It appeals to these profitable savages.
To drink a zillion oil-filled buckets,
They use despotic rockets.
War and Greed’s bond
Begat this profitable spawn.
War and Greed’s bond
Begat this profitable spawn.
Tabloid, internet
And television’s taloned scavengers
Pulp the atrocity to the point
They can gulp the atrocity.
Disinformation will always manifest
Out of whatever they ingest.
The disinformation they often expel
Helps oily dollars swell and swell.
War and Greed’s bond
Begat this profitable spawn.
War and Greed’s bond
Begat this profitable spawn.
Billfold Souls
Suppose those Billfold Souls,
Who tow their boats of green notes,
Had stocks that knocked into sewage
Under Wall Street’s block,
Suppose those Billfold Souls
Scoped the Dow Jones
Go under gravestones,
Suppose those Billfold Souls
Scoped the NASDAQ
Slap some bird crap
Over a broker’s jacket,
Suppose those Billfold Souls
Scoped a certain magazine’s five hundred
Hunger to wed a loaf of bread,
Suppose those Billfold Souls
Scoped their bank accounts’ mass
Wind up a fumbled pass,
Would those Billfold Souls
Find the emotion known as despair
For a human who stares
At a pocket
That has no money in the fabric’s lair,
Would those Billfold Souls
Find the emotion known as despair
For a human who stares
At a plate
That has no sustenance there,
Would those Billfold Souls despair,
Would those Billfold Souls despair
For anything besides
Their beaten schemes for moolah reams?
Blessed Meals During Cursed Times
Holding the same Biblical urge
To end barbarity's scourge,
My antebellum ancestors
Wanted a rescuer to emerge.
Left beside their regrets,
They sought manna for their palates.
And there was a seasoned trove
All over some ebony mama’s stove.
Provided you had their edibles,
Existence felt palatable.
Punches were munched apart.
Mamas fried, sautéed or baked,
And sent another ache astray.
Their recipes sent servitude’s hurts
Past tyranny’s outskirts.
Mamas’ food helped sorrow get hauled
And it allowed love to be installed.
Watching gladness protrude,
Mamas gave nutrition to various broods.
Considering the fortifiers they served,
I hope them mamas heard,
I hope them mamas heard
Thank you.
America’s Unconstitutional Grill
Near the counter,
One seat away from a guy named Uncle Sam,
I sat in America’s Unconstitutional Grill,
Notorious for its discrimination special.
Recollections took my psyche traveling
Throughout gripped and whipped generations.
I remembered Sam’s culture-ramming family
Capturing my kin
And reducing them to abused horses
In a round pen.
My temper went from a semiautomatic pistol
To a ballistic missile.
Around then
My anger could have leveled
America’s Unconstitutional Grill.
Right before my left was going to punch Sam
So his teeth would meet a dirt heap
Beneath some table’s feet,
Noncaucasian children came in.
They ordered cheeseburgers.
A sour-cream-demeanoured waitress,
Wearing a hairnet,
Said, “The Grill did not get
The School Budget Tomato Sauce yet.”
Judging from the way
Their liveliness took a graveyard turn,
Noncaucasian children did learn
Unconcern made their meals burn.
According to other Noncaucasian patrons,
There was not much pepper
In the House and Senate stew.
Noncaucasian patrons spat discontent
Over the cop-frisked pork biscuits
Accompanying assorted penal-smelly vittles.
Seconds from leaving America’s Unconstitutional Grill,
Despite my refusal to select a speck,
The waitress tossed me a check.
After I tabulated
Subjugation's cost,
I told the ashy cashier,
“Get the damn owners to atone
And reimburse for every year
My people spent here.”
