No bloodied Heather, then. Good for you----the poem's cool, effectively
metapored/themed---and good for your protesting.
[Hey, didja get to see Obama?!]
Reminded me of the protests and destruction in Chicago during the '68
Democratic Convention; I wasn't in the demonstrations but saw a lot of it
and the next day wept copiously because of the tear gas that still hung
around in a nearby park. Not pretty memories, and I knew folks on all sides
of the political spectrum, including some with [pre-, post-, and some
subsequently pardoned] criminal records.
All of that said, both situations seem mild compared with other countries'
demonstrations, and the 'silent and invisible' [to us] attempts at
demonstrating.
All best,
Judy
2009/4/2 Heather Taylor <[log in to unmask]>
> G20 at Canning Town Station
>
> They cluster in 4s and 5s
> decorated in fluorescent yellow,
> truncheons dangling at their sides.
>
> Hopping from foot to foot
> they scan crowds, stopping
> dreadlocks and patchwork coats
>
> to search bags, empty pockets
> look suspectingly at sets of keys
> and full canteens as dangerous weapons.
>
> My nose ring mustn't be big enough,
> my curled hair not the matted mess
> they'd expect from a protesting terrorist
>
> so they look past me to stop pink hair,
> no passing thoughts that my bulging bag
> may be filled with bombs and gasoline.
>
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