Riot. Riot. Riots.
They have built a mountain out of
symbols.
A net, a web, a pedagogy of
controls.
Who was this man?
Who are the high-excluded,
the killers of the four Kennedys?
These star controllers
with patents and chipsets,
electrodes and diodes,
combines
colluding the genetic flora genomes,
oh, a far off quota
hidden in iron mountains under
different ultraviolet spectrums.
For we must be altered
so they there,
so they there can live.
Remember the Agora!
Remember the Forum!
But the riot. Riot. Riots
could stop this
if words could meet them
on the other side of the electrical
divide,
beyond the spell of electrical devices,
in their hearts out in the streets.
The riots inside of their hearts.
Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin
novamartinpoetry.com 