the pill presents an unglamorous solution–
a fading hole in the lines of escape from the heartless steel, the metal coldness of rockets that have emptied the deserts of the dark, hooded enemies, the white nightmares and the specter of terror, profit masquerading about the circus floor as safety, racism dressed in the firm cuffs of security, waltzing so freely and dripping from the audience’s lips as the sand turns red, the children watch their mothers and fathers lives wink out, and the audience asks why they dress that way, why the knives and why they mean to frighten us–
until the nightmare becomes real, and a member of the audience is killed by the stray bullets, the metal coldness leaking out of his chest, his funeral pyre is placed on top of the brown bodies, worshipped from afar and he is the bravest among the audience, they will say his name over and over in a mockery of grief,
hypocrisy will make his entrance
disguised as their tears, begging for an answer for the drones, seeking the owners of the steel bullets, holding the weeping white heads on his shoulders and asking for their strength. They will point fingers at their hooded nightmares in the ring, the figures still gathering their dead, throwing angry little stones into the crowd’s midst. The ringing starts again, a deafening sound of engines, the lusty drums of war, the cycle in the pills’ depths, the circus touches our lips, and we must gulp it down or die trying, setting the bull truth barreling down the aisles, we cannot choke on the horror of the spectacle.