Whatever Happened To the Real Poets
who choked on the noxious atmosphere of fascism, inhaled smoke
from burning crosses, factories, bombs then exhaled
a ruptured nation onto the page, helpless to stop the unrest
of words as if paper pulsed, as if change
were possible. Whatever happened to the empowered
poets whose long lines marched in protest, faced despots without trepidation,
screamed like renegades between all the damnable governing margins,
castrated a ******** system with saltiest blades,
roasted corrupt pigs in power. Whatever happened to the definition of verse
as condemnation, revolution, freedom —
today, stale marshmallow words piled, stanza after frivolous stanza ,
while Armageddon threw open the doors to the asylum;
tonight, white hoods will blacken opened eyes & liberty will bleed out ...
So, tell me, when will real poets finally rally and rise?
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