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
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