of blood and limbs
ferment to sausage
on grass of limed-over liberties.
Others make money.
• • •
We are all naked.
Rice in a pressure cooker.
some of us obey
some of us explode
some of us refuse to blanch,
for we are not rice.
• • •
A jean of clouds fades blue
warsh clean a stain of sun.
Pearls of bleach hung swirling white
across an endless leg of night.
terrorism's a feint of reality;
a lottery you don't want to win.
It's no excuse to rob us of our last tax dime
or final civil liberty.
Chris Johnston is a Twitter poet, novelist and publisher living in Moon. Follow him on Twitter at @boinkaz or on his blogs iboinkaz.wordpress.com or pittsburghpasty.wordpress.com. Fyi, some poems are sent in more than one tweet.