Dear Emissary,

I must warn you that what you will see
are the rapidly assembled facades
corresponding to the press release:
their tropical flush, their fresh coat
of paint– Bodies will throng the boulevard,
a respectable distance from front rows
of movie stars-turned-politicians
and other celebrities. Beyond them,
you might glimpse the haze that blankets
outlying suburbs and valleys, the glint
of tin roofs where most of us shelter.
O but yes, the wonder of trains
bisecting the city, towers of glass
and concrete sheltering the 24 hour
call centers of the world. The beggars
have been disappeared, and the flower
vendors, and the squatters under the bridge.
The state is the mother of fear. And the state
of fear is harder than the diamond ring
on the president’s sister’s finger, is a color
redder than the famous sunset tinting the bay—
but you might never know it because an entire police
force, especially your contingent, has been ordered
to wear adult diapers beneath their issued fatigues.

 

In response to Via Negativa: Paranoia.

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