Monday, November 15, 2010

Don Cheadle

Her clear blue eyes were transparent
Pathways into an ancient soul,
Burdened with newsprint and torture.
The pimply baby fat of her cheeks
Pointed to the years still to be scarred
By the rantings of mad pisspot emperors.
She spoke of a tyrant rigging an election,
Unapologetically public, a matter of course, 
With extortion, murder and the lash.
Her voice, earnest, shot arrows of justice,
As I listened, attentively indifferent,
Deflecting the onslaught, pretty much
Mocking her stern intent with passive
Nods, full of show but vacant of meaning.
See, I remember another time, or
Better to say I was reminded,
Of another dark secret on the front page,
When the machete fueled a river of life
Drained out and genocide went missing
From dictionaries on the East River.
I’ve seen too many of these bloated
Troglodytes eating chocolates, dressed
Like over fed doormen with medals
And ribbons from imaginary wars,
Grasping to be king of a dung heap they
Force the people to live in while they
Bask in unnatural pleasures by swimming pools.
Yes I saw the news already, but didn’t read.
It’s the same story and I know the ending already.
I’ve already tried to stir the pot, and my arm is tired.
Once it was my brown eyes and baby fat
Ranting to empty heads and blind brains.
And now I am the straw hat, shamed to
Know that I was once that girl and now am
Simply an tired, cynical, fat old man.

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