The light it was broad, stretching the sky beneath.
The cop wouldn't let up, almost an orgasmic aura on his face. Pleasure derived from another man's pain.
The TV shows a jittery camera filming the man.
The cop stopped a man — who allegedly wrote a bad check just like the cop's wife did when she was his age — had his knee on the man's neck.
A puddle streams from the man's zipper to the gutter, then blood trickles from his throat, flowing on the summer street.
White foam forms in the man's mouth, which also trickles to the street.
The man's not moving.
And still, the cop's not moving.
The cops don't check his pulse.
He stopped moving three minutes ago.
Still, the cops don't check his pulse.
Four cops, crushing the man's body to death.
Now I understand why they say fuck the police.
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The Lonely Position of Neutral
PoetryBen's throat cancer has returned. Living a lonely life, he found a woman he loves but finds out she's been unfaithful. Ben starts to think the lonely position of neutral isn't that bad. He writes poems and dialogue narratives. Will Ben survive cance...
