War-Torn (a poem)

Tuesday, March 4, 2025

Hip-hop, skip my flesh across the dirt—
sorry, oversexualized, overweaponized,
a world of war, a zero-sum game,
binary of a binary—
and people pay with their lives.

War-torn, trauma in every lyrical flip-flop,
the upside-down where trust is a mirage,
where everyone might ultimately be an enemy.
Us and them—and there are 42 thems,
this war feels unwinnable,
but the upside?
No one on the other side was any wiser.

No honor among thieves,
a den of hyenas, ugly, mangy moral mutts,
Muppet time, reality TV,
C-SPAN’s best ratings yet.

The spectacle, the circus, the dance,
fleas pirouetting on the backs of senators,
snippets, bytes—snap—
die? A thousand paper cuts,
slow hemorrhage of truth,
while the crowd just clicks, scrolls, forgets.

Fire.
Time for church, the ritual,
light the torches, crank the masses’ opium,
rally the pitchforks—let’s go.
The rest of you?
Stay in line.