A Poem for White Supremacists

Brutal shootings in the streets,

AK-17s in bowling alleys, churches,

in schools; handguns in bedrooms—

racist, sexist anger gushing out of geysers

of America’s blood-stained soil,

fertile ground from which corrupt pols

stir foment,

cast lies and lines to people living

in a lobster pot of fear

and ill-defined discontent—

juxtaposed against the rich and famous:

gold toilets, hand-painted, inlaid ceramic tile pools.

A dull, illusory movement across plasma screens

of phosphor-filled cells feeding Americans

drooling from corners of their mouths

shaped by lust, want, greed,

and simmering rage.

How easy it was for a puppet to hold

their strings and become puppet master,

thrusting them forward,

commanding the dance he needed to see

from his hardened soul throwing shade

as he jerked them and jerked off

upon his artificial stage.

Puppet master himself a willing pawn.

“As long as cameras are trained on me,”

he screams maniacally.

They jump and fall repeatedly

at directions from a cynical hustler in his circus.

“Cut your strings,” a child cried out. “Be free.”

But they continue to twitch

and wriggle in hideous aspect of hate.

“As long as we’re not irrelevant,”

yells an angry man with strings

pierced through his muscular soft palate

and out through sockets of unseeing eyes.

Nancy Avery Dafoe

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