"Strikethrough" by Brad Hamers

cop canister to the head
cry me an aluminum funnel
oil me a sharp but slippery sentence
stop me before ‘demands’
crop me out at the creamery
grab as many free condiment packets as you can
police beanbags to the head
the media was (a) hit (late) bruised and changing color
smoke makes the best protest
the medics form a line
at the grapevine all the way back from the telegraph
arms stiff from holding up out-dated math (and symbol)
rubber bullet to the head
runner full of what he said
(the vine) pulled a capsaicin on a starting gun
(we’re)bummed down to standing up
no-vote first through the bottom line
really, put my socks on my hand ?
okay the river wants to vote for the damn, half the creek only makes noise because it won’t give in,
where clinton lands capital letter first through the support beams, like lobbyists ain’t sunlight,
(and microsoft word can really read the bible) or both sides ain’t the same coin,
red line under my name, pig blanket over my head, cry me an oil drill,
both baskets are in it to make money,
kiss me a wallet, show me receipts
one flash grenade to the chest
two words away from a sound
a thousand steps back
and another country later
molotov breadbasket to a cop
every tear to my head
this puddle of rips
forms a pond
and swamps
every ipad afire
tear gas canister to the head
be dead on a bright light, the vacuum on a camera, attract all the moth you can,
until you lose your clothes
then farm
a hundred riot police later, when we become immune to pepper spray
some white-shirt scarecrow still hold their perch
as if they wasn’t just props
as if thanksgiving weren’t only dinner
i ate 3 states and a southern half of another
threw up like a parachute over Cayuse territory
landed like scotch tape on a rip in the dollar
thrown off the Blue Mountains
white flag first
red and black after that
linguistically independent
no one understood
understand my face to the ground
the blood read back like a paperback novel, played out
dodge the end of the stage
exit trap door left
(single-file)right-minded and dyslexic (tap emotions, all from the same pipe)
cry me out a legible map to an actual alternative
(all babies in the head)
had em at conception
dragged em back from passenger plane in the room to it’s only gas pains
long lasted scare, 767 scars and original sin
bury the guilt in its noose , with the tree it came in on
have the slaveship ride its (owner’s) saddle back to freedom
Liberty st. to the head
cop-out’s knee in your back
camera got your ignorance and optimism
editor got your tongue
body out the bag
zombie politics and watches set ahead
head to the hard facts
broken system in the bag
cry me a warm bath
sweep me a dead Indian to sleep in
lion out the bag
sound cannon to the head
only heard the choir
then the cook’s bell (wearing a planet’s ring)
aggressive kiss to the head
we’ll never hear this exact pitch again
(audible cries come later)
this sleep-walk is a dead dream, a posthumously put out album
(bottled up & sold) broke the taboo over our head
best possible worlds spill out like ears and ripped off hit songs
corn in the cherry on top
sat like a hard hat
obliged to think about the alternative
corruption wasn’t the rock or hammer falling from one bad decision
but the building itself
tool belt around our head
like flies over overkill
road underneath, swatting at demands
keep the flag around your neck until it frees you
trust the cameras to show every cut and drip of blood
uninvolved opinion forms a line
(like the equator, tourists flocked to it, as if hotels)
(taking up room in the wave pool)
(how to say goodbye to what’s been ingrained in you)
the bandaid aid (pulls hair&) rips up skin
the cop forces one to resist arrest
funded wound, all star cast
protecting the broken system
playing the roots for a sap
every last word in cuffs, like dog by leash, to tree, thru sidewalk (by way of building)
the shrubbery with fence in hand
stick up through the dirt
raise your hearing aids to the voice
our echoes talked back
brought down history
then sat in caves until they collapsed
will any of us be able to speak firm and over all the rocks
will the rocks knock us into bricks
will you hit the 47th floor
will that be good enough to fall from
missing sky to the head
cloud in my hand
fog in the rear-sight
storm in my heart
words shaky on the trigger
.pdf bible
all the way back from smoke signals
shackled in their rings
cop baton to your middle passage
figurative night sticks in your head
allegorical shadows require sun
but the puppets protect the cave
twelve string guitar tied to my ends
(it takes six strings alone to hold up this head)
if we have enough hand in the grasp(fist) we can slap the about directly in its face
at least long enough to bruise
and show (‘our’) color