Seattle, When the Walls Fell, and Rose
A needle stands silent against the ever-grey sky. The streets seethe, red ribbons of rage, but this is not an AIDS walk. Furious clashes between the uniformed and the irregular, authority corralling anarchy.
A bottle flares.
A bullet flies
Store-front barricades are ravaged, new bastions rise. Sandbag, concrete, steel, junk. Relics of last week's civilization, ancient history.
Guitars in the park, no one strums Kumbaya.
At the barriers, radio static is the only blues. Police horses whinny, waiting the charge. In the wind, protest signs whisper and snap. When the pot boils over, who’ll be left in the kitchen?
Will there be anything left to eat, after
all spoons are turned into shivs?