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Why do they do it?
Call him?
Because he comes
He's had his ears pierced by sirens
his skull cracked
by the wooden dildo of an impotent police officer
his teeth broken from the bone,
and both of his eyes blackened,
for seeing the truth).
Balancing on the tips of the toes of madmen,
He's run with them past the devil,
Just to get there in time.
Take it from me,
No one believes theyll be part of this odd theater,
The decision only made,
During the most lonely,
Last minute hour,
When it finally occurs to them,
They want the tragedy documented after all
Their own syllable of recorded time,
And is he,
An emotional pawnbroker?
The jury's still out on that one.

Started writing this poem many years ago—in fact, I keep adding to it as things happen—it was done as a protest against police brutality—in particular—I was left permanently enraged after my friend Clayton Patterson was nearly beaten to death by an out of control policeman.  (And what was Clayton's crime?  Video taping a fire). Meanwhile, he was not in anyone's way, nor had he broken any laws. Apparently, this policeman was angry at Clayton over the videos he had taken of the Thompkin's Square Police Riots. And so, this poem is dedicated to each and every ROGUE police officer who ever existed—in this or any other lifetime.

"Suck Death", 1985

Suck Death,
Bite down hard on it,
Break your fucking teeth on it,
Choke on it,
As it slides down your gullet,
Into your belly,
Then out through your blood strings,
And may tiny little droplets of it,
Ooze from your pores,
Making your skin,
Shine with the grease.
Fuhrman the vermin,
Volpe the plunger,
Michael Dowd and his sleazy crowd,
Should not be allowed,
To step on the ground.
We should construct giant toilets.
We should have public flushings.
And take that thin blue line,
Sharpen it to a fine,
And then stick it where the sun don't shine.