The Boy was barely out of his teens.
From the hotel lobby he could see the "scenes".
A solid mass of chaos spilling into the streets,
the uproar severing the space between desk dames and deadbeats
But work is over and the Boy was cheerful about the seriousness going on
The chants were terrific, the language was strong
And He stepped out amongst them not knowing what would become
Of his innocence after the March was done
The scent of revolution is cranberry and zinc
Worn by a flowered Girl stitched in ink
The Girl was louder than peacetime bombs, and from Her bullhorn Her swollen thunder begs....
Born deaf to The Left, the Boy swept unkept flower tattoos from His eyes, stolen from her legs
She summons his gaze and quiets her tongue, mouthing for him to come
As the rest of the revolution continues to butcher "Redemption Song"
The Boy approaches with the cheap antidote
for silence; He clears his throat
Offering weird weightless words, they float
Into the calamitous footsteps of the Revolt
"Ramen noodle" nerves shrivel in the face of True Beauty
And the Boy becomes aware of this "cotton mouth" Cutie
Why was there fire in the lava leaping from Her lips?
He was a singer but His booming voice failed to eclipse
Those of the daytime dystopian carolers who got high on their own chants
Winding down the paths of commerce like pheromone driven ants
Still the Boy watched the Girl as if they were about to dance
At the heels of every worthwhile Uprising follows a parched romance
So They Both took a second to drink in each other's glance
White noises made with Black voices as well
Faded away long enough for the Girl to tell
The Boy to hold her bullhorn as she put her nappy hair upright
The freckled Female so thin her skin so White
The Boy was speechless but called out with his eyes
They sparkled like pools of weak coffee, shallow cups of lies
The Boy had no real world experience but She was all knowing
He scared away His own stare for fear of his innocence showing
She takes back her loud mouth device and begin blowing
"I'm Candace. I feel and I 'phukken' hurt. I hurt!
Sitting there in their Banker chairs above the Dirt."
Looking up at random windows She grew short
She spat at them from her turtleneck and jean skirt
"I know you're up there! Why don't you share!
You can't be everywhere, We can... so beware!
The People are here!" And then a single tear
YOU ARE READING
THE RIOTERS (memoir edition)
Short StoryThis is a short story\poem about a male who finds a female in the middle of a volatile protest. He hadn't been exposed to real world problems yet and She was lost in them. He needed Her so He could grow up and She needed him to remind her that Sh...
