by Hal Bogotch


He who shall not be named,
font of hate.

How do
the wonder of radio
the miracle of television
make us believe?

Is a make-believe leader
worse than no leader at all?

(Twitter as a platform
hands a bigger megaphone
to celebrities.)

Let’s shout the word, terrorism.
Let’s say it quietly.

Who among us
is not a child of blackness?

If Dizzy and Miles
are not founding fathers,
then who iz?

Billie Holiday sewed
our first flag.

How does it feel
to be red, white, black, and blue?

When shall we invite
Canada and Mexico
over for a barbecue?

Sweet, tangy sauce,
dripping from the ribs.

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— H A L

Categories: Poetry, Venice