They label me domestic.
I sweep the floors. I clean the tubs.
I spray the counters, dust and rub
The tchotchkes clean, pick up their stuff.
I’m paid to do their work.
They label me domestic.
I am an issue: things they care
About and vote on. Lion’s share
Concerning country. I live there.
I shelter them from hurt.
They label me domestic.
I am, like cattle, placid, sweet.
I live for something good to eat.
They stuff and slaughter me, for meat.
I chew and swish my tail.
They label me domestic.
I hold a sign, support a cause.
I re-tweet something scandalous.
I blow a whistle at the cops.
So why am I in jail?
For a poem about discarding the Old for the New, read The New. For a poem about the dizzying experience of online activity, read Like. For the mistreatment of reporters just doing their job, read Politely Decline and Enemy of the People. For a lament on destruction of monuments, read The Renovation Will be Televised.
Politely Decline
It’s gotten to the point that “domestic terrorist” has been used ad absurdum and is now, for all intents and purposes,” drained of meaning.
The fact that Florida is trying to pass legislation which enshrines the term in law makes me think the meaning is very critical to the eventual game plan.
Ted Kosinski and McVeigh were domestic terrorists. They killed people with bombs. A VA nurse extending a hand to a fallen woman is not. Nor are five-year-olds in bunny hats. When for the love of all that’s holy, is this nightmare going to END?