Poems from the crucible, pt. 4

If #CHAZ were black protesters
and not white anarchists,
they might end up like MOVE,
hunted and penned and
bombed and blown to smithereens.
Nothing left but a clean-up job
for highly skilled city janitors.

But Seattle ain’t like Philadelphia.
Not a church in Revelations.
Not the City of Brotherly Love.
It was named for an Indian chief
who predicted, “The white man will
never be alone. Let him be just,
and deal kindly with my people.
For the dead are not powerless.”
An ominous warning, indeed.

And 2020 ain’t 1985. The internet
sends a picture around the world.
Instantaneously a meme is formed,
a virus for the fertile mind. It could be
a trap, this massive sit-in that displaces
others who used to hang out there,
an occupation by a next generation
of settlers, an expression of their
new found manifest destiny. Quicksand.
Chief Seattle still whispers to us.

3 thoughts on “Poems from the crucible, pt. 4

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