Poetry by F.D. Marcel

genocide in bags


CIA coka
who dealt death, & will never be
whole again
w/ the memory bookmarked by the void
where soul had been,
had been
dealing &
maybe carrying
a snub-nose to feel more like a man
& not even old enough to drive
& watching things get worse,
an epidemic as a child
seen it grow
seen it turn genocide
seen carved out neighborhoods
eclipsed under the tendrils
of the American Dream, the gnashing teeth
underground economy
underneath the underbelly
the entire empty shell
never been a market as free as
the corner &
all that money made off
all that pain.
trickle-down economics
watched it turn into a flood
w/ no one swimming,
w/ corpses
w/ nothing left.

magic for poets

We’ve all got blood
on our piano wire &
we’re out of tune w/
the stink of our rust building bombs &
starting wildfires & clubbing seals &
funding terrorism & buying tabloids

Not that one day
we’ll all be striking our
black & white keys,
sending uncontested
sonatas & nocturnes into wide open spaces
like vultures, like wild dogs

The trick is to play Jerry Lee Lewis
on your ribs while
the rest of the world
plays lullabies &
sleeps through the only reasons
to be alive

Or take an ax to your piano
& save us
from your music. Your


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