Sitting in traffic in the Eighty-Eight with a
crisp uniform, crisp wife, and nothing more.
Making the victorious lane change,
a half-formed thought of the
glory of 1968 passed:
We never left the siege, we only reproduced.
Instead of coming closer, one by one we leave the circle and
pat the dogs on the perimeter of the
Tilex/Arfendofer School of Victim Resistance.
Officer Friendly is dead. What are we
going to do w/o him?
Those who survived him, those of us
who are about to meet Officer Unfriendly,
what are we going to do?
Someone spends the whole day shepherding what we know inside,
like who our cousins are, and mixes it up.
(mumble, mumble, brunette)
Every day they pull it out of you pure and big-chested
and feed it back to you with a spoon.
Whatever happens next it’s always
“Stop, Thief” and so on.
Here: Every Off-Duty Cop worth his spit will tell you the same thing–
The crowning sight of any revolution is the
helicopter rising from the city center,
veering away from the TV station,
and bolting out toward the hills.
September 24, 2993
© 1995 Daniel X. O'Neil
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