To The Un-Indictable

We have borne the burden of proof.

Buried it.

Our bullet-ridden bodies not enough

to poke holes in your privilege.

Years ago, The Elders held picnics. Pack a lunch; kill a darky. Crunch a carrot between your teeth as his bones roast. His body s w i n g s…

Then still.

It’s Oprah’s Favorite Things: Row five wins postcards of his bulging eyes to mail up North. You there, the young lady with the nursing baby! Take home his manhood in a jar.

A spectacle. The birth of a nation. The birth of our nation. (Father, we pray: Have pity on those Third World nations.)

Pick up your sandwiches, nothing left to see. The afterparty will begin in 2014

hosted by the Grand Jury.

Bring your badge or your neighborhood watch face. Bring your authority, your tear gas, your presumption as fact.

Bring your real bullets (not Tamir’s or John Crawford’s). Nay, the kind that serve and protect

Vital Interests,

Yours.

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