I am inside

a blender, spinning

at maddening speed

amongst red, orange and

green fruits and vegetables.

 

I have no idea which way is up.

 

I whirl and whirl and whirl

to a place strangely familiar.

 

Vietnam War Protest:

I Ain't Marchin' Anymore

playin'. I'm marchin'.

 

A dark shadow crosses me.

It whispers hate.

 

I'm tear gassed in DC.

National Guard, black visors

hide eyes, bayonets,

helicopters twirling above.

 

Billie says, "If we don't stand up to

them now, when will we?" I run,

duck in a fancy hotel; wild hair

red bandana. White kid

of privilege, they let me in.

 

I march again with college students

down middle of street, no police escort.

A busy day stops, supportive horns

honk, buoy everyone like balloons. I know

how little that means and how big the foe.

 

I spin.

​

We march to the Federal Building,

sit down and block the street

near where I slept to protest

Nixon back in '71.

 

I whirl again.

 

March to a Bank of America

eerie with no windows,

like it knew we would come.

 

Mike throws rocks

acrid smell of teargas

we run.

 

Snake oil spins  

like a '45 on the news.

Washing machines spin

science clean of imperfection.

 

Womxn's March.

Still spinning

I brace myself

try not to fall.

 

Carrots, kale

and apples whiz

everywhere.

 

I am tired.

 

A voice says

spin until green.

 

I surrender.