Silence

By Carl Wade Thompson

We are a nation of silence,
broken moments in the wind,
like bonfires scattered across
this land of bullets and blood.
Fifty people killed yesterday, dancing away the night.
Twenty kids at Sandy Hook,
just babies, blown away.
Twenty-four in a theater,
even Batman couldn't save the day.
The shootings happen daily:
ISIS, Russia, China, Taliban,
Martians from outer space.
We're always so afraid,
bred into it at birth,
we give up freedom for safety.
Always so scared all the time,
of a shadow in the sun.
Only certain people count;
Blacks, however, are not among them.
Just ask Chicago --
Forty-two people shot,
nothing on the TV.
We always get mad,
cry, scream, protests, rallies,
but our rage dies out soon after,
forgotten pixels on the web.
People forget so easily here --
America forgets the dead.
Guns are not the problem,
they're never the problem.
A mountain of guns,
A Kingdom united under God.
Let us pray for assault rifles,
in Jesus' name we fight on,
the heathen, non-white races,
Muslim-queer Satan spawn.
That's what they say,
saw it on the 700 club.
We don't see the collateral damage,
drone strikes on wedding guests --
don't ask questions;
thinking is too hard.
Fire a missile instead.
Others -- not us, not human,
we never, ever see them.
They're not real people.
Only Americans are real,
certain Americans are real.
We're just meat in a grinder,
America turns the crank,
stuffed in TV casings
of the Kardashians and TMZ.