emergency (re-posted for those who lost their lives)

on 911 to the one,

we looked down the barrel

of a loaded gun.

i thought this might be

w w three,

no more me.

on 911 to the one,

aloofness became undone.

it finally hit home,

four shots straight to the dome:

two fatal shots, in nyc,

in pa, a flesh wound meant for dc,

in dc, one lay critical . . .

nothin’ personal . . .

strictly political.

on 911 to the one

we thought the lasers were locked on stun.

we got sucker-punched, erbody out to lunch.

we dropped to our knees and began to choke,

and our opponent disappeared

in a cloud of fire and smoke.

on 911 to the one there came a loaded gun,

with hollow tips, that brought us to our knees.

we screamed “oh my!!”,

released a sigh, wondered why,

and then we all began to cry.

on 911 to the one,

not a cloud, yet no sun.

we wallowed in the shadow of the enemies’ gun.

first came sorrow,

then our thoughts about tomorrow.

in less than twenty-four,

they had a name, so they claim,

and yet, they hesitated just the same.


on 911 to the two

will there be a me and you?

will they be caught with their knickers down,

to never even hear the sound?

will they continue to assume

that no real danger looms,

that we’re all simply sayers of doom?

perhaps it’s not too wise

to criticize those with watchful eyes,

whose jets no longer leave the skies,

while battleships dot our oceansides.

perhaps they’re locked and loaded,

mimicking C4: waiting to be exploded.

but on 911 to the one

we faced a loaded gun.

terror paid a visit to our home

with four shots straight to the dome.

we fell victim to a loaded gun

on 911 to the one.

copyright   2001  blackstarr

freerealm@gmail.com

Bulletproof by Raheem Devaughn

photos from across the web

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