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21 “…Look away, look away…” By Raymond Nat Turner Rumbling bellies, parched throats, numb Mother, stunned Father crawl on scraped knees, bleeding hands across gold foil fragments of diploma seals; Across shards of glass, pulverized appliances, crushed sheetrock, smoldering furniture, shattered North African dreams and Mideast mornings; They claw frantically with laser precision to muffled cries of Their toddler Their infant’s dead— Say bonnet, booty and bloody baby blanket, where the window was— Mothers Of All Bombs do this to Other Peoples’ Babies named ‘Collateral Damage—’ To pre-teens with posterplastered walls, and floors mined with soccer shoes and balls, below bookshelves armed with sports stars, 22 magic tricks and insects No hand-wringing, heartwrenching mili-second mechanical sympathy, like families with nannies, playdates, Thousand dollar strollers get Every Tuesday—for 8 years—you trained Yourselves to “…Look away…” Orgasmic as your Hero unleashed Hellfire Missiles on suspicious farmers You’d “…Look away…” Mesmerized by Madison Avenue marketing: “Yes, we can” and Bottle Jim Jones Juice and Deliver regime “Change you can believe in:” Massacres making Washington and Wall Street warlords more money You’d “…Look away…” Wet, cold Wiki-leaked Reality irrelevant in your rush to “Feel the Bern,” climb the Hill—tread denial—blind behind Capitalist Hill’s latest liar 23 Spiking war profiteers’ shares You’d “…Look away, look away…” To beautiful “Bombs bursting in air… and rockets red glare” and Hear campaign chants, “Jobs, jobs, jobs, jobs!” Oh, how magnificent it must feel to “…Look away, look away…” ...


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MARC Record
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