Poetry

Meat Grinder Blues

They are not always the boots of empire;
sometimes they are the stocking/stalking feet,
sometimes they are the padded heels,

the
unsaid thoughts,

the quote facts and figures unquote,
history mangled by white pages,
neighbors estranged by zoning laws,
nature deranged by droning saws.

And now this:
vacation.
And now this:
self-care.
And now this:
libations.
And now this:
underwear.

Now this
money-drenched hellhole.

The world has been turned into a sack of coins,
politicians, the burglars:
purloining all our futures
for just one more vacation home.
How many homes do they need?
How many homes have they destroyed?

We cry, we bleed, we …
How many nights will we lose

restful sleep
for empire?

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