Eight hours for misconduct Belongings removed From coat pockets By latex gloved civil servants And placed in Hermetically sealed plastic. Twenty-six cents, twentysixth sense It's right here in a clear plastic freezer bag Some kind of static fragment reminder Huddled in a corner of a plastic fold. That single memory, A violent mixture of sweat, Stench and hallowed minds With a societalborn indignance for mankind. Here are the faceless men That smear together as a gesture And tainted voice For their condemned race. Don't stop and reflect It's all their before you A song and dance That has played itself into scratches, skips And interruptions in our daily ingestion of the world Through the eyes of a select few. Behind the steel doors Inside the concrete lounges Are the ones who live the reality Society covers over With facelifts and elevator music. Young gentle energy Lost its' virtue in the blood dance of a homicide. Take a walk down a business street Where tattered outstretched arms and voices Are graffiti unjustly interrupting Our tunnel visioned lies. MISCONDUCT? We violate each other's space By never saying hello to a stranger Or failing to smile at a blur of others That rush by to complete their ritual of acceptance Into a flawed system of economy Without a heartbeat of love. My tears encapsulate that single moment With no sense of specific time Or place But the eight hours of misconduct.
Reason for writing:
I was put in jail for yelling at a guy who pulled a knife on
me at a library> Eventually the charges were dropped, but it really made
me think about how society has no clue as to what is really happening out there.
Birth sign: Not entered
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View more poems by Grigorii Romashko--Libra.