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And So Are We

by K. Kylyra Ameringer

I saw you on the box

old man,

bellowing about bombs

over the cheers

from your acolytes.

Does it bite

that the bombs are still flying,

the babies still frying,

and your children are still trying

to put a stopper

in the holes of right wing protagonists?

I read your written words

old man,

the censored symphony

of homosexual heinousness

left as pocket-sized books,

numbered neatly in a series.

Did you know

you were shaking the field,

that yield on your harvest

would succour so

many mouths and marbles

down the road

father beat out with his pen?

I heard you in your rage

old man,

talking about persecution

before the execution

of the all holy Patriot Act.

The fact is

you had a system to fight,

a way to cite precedence

and hold confidence in officialdom;

you weren't stolen away at night

to concentration camps

constructed covertly

on good old American soil.

We toil on

old man,

those of us who fight shy

of the nine to five,

those of use who ask why

we should give

and underpin this monster from Mars.

We follow you

old man,

running to smoke smudged pubs

and cafes where the clink

of heavy handled cups

cymbal crash lightly

over novel nuances

of spoken syllables.

We hate too

old man,

the mendacity of tinted terror,

the audacity of imperiousness,

the practicality of settlement,

leaving apathetic audiences

with minds like sieves

to give our words to.

It's still goin' on

old man,

and so are we.