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Poetry: The Blank Ideal

bullet shock in horror strike, black Chevy drive
by a machine gun cast in silver sin inside
hidden in the confines of a stale and murky night
to silence gray-bearded proclaimers—lied
down in the dirt muck insanity of slave wage
brainwashed by false God belief—WE’RE SAVED
while barons in blood mail steal all they’ve made
and cloak their eyes in black veils ’cause they can’t face
the grim diseases that set in when the high nurse
prepares the dirty sutures of slaves’ temple-church
bodies in a pit of oil and laughter—worse
because the death design was forged to line a purse,
organs ripped from stab wounds in weeping backs
is it justice for the sin or is the sin just that?

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