Carnage Upon Innocence
-Or-
America, You Make Me Cry
As we collectively sigh,
quoting George Orwell
on social media
on a Thursday afternoon
in North America
seems to be the equivalent of
a well-tossed fart from the
cupped hand of a sibling,
vying for attention
before the real fight starts.
Good for a couple laughs,
but then there it goes,
that sting in your eye.
Our prosthetic symbols of protest
have weakened,
as the desperate 9-5ers
are just workin’ for the weekend.
Us, a heap on the couch
til Friday night appears
out of nowhere and hustles
us into action.
Probably just to the fridge
for one more unsure
glance at the cheese,
but perhaps
to the revolution?
Who will cover for me
as I try to sleep
these nightmares away?
Who will understand
and stay to be the guard watch
at the precipice of the new horizon
where our nation stoops so low
to allow murder in the streets,
unsolicited carnage upon innocence?
She, unsuspecting,
fearful in the town
where Purple Rain was made.
Certainly a different age now,
in a century not that old.
We are embarrassing
our future descendants,
this mess we are making
of allowing feral beasts to
write out our history.
The rest of the world
collects the days’ wins
and debts accordingly.
“25 to 1” whispers
a trembling beauty of a poet,
as she lays a bloody, crumpled $20
on the dash
while they blast her fucking brains out,
live on Facebook for everyone to see.
Yet
we’re so blind, shielded
from the outside by
a plethora of duties,
excuses padding moments of downtime.
For many,
that energy we’d put
into revolting
generations ago
has run amok
to so many routines
circling within themselves.
No time to make protest signs
when I’m over here dying on the mic
and practicing for dystopian apocalypse.
Yassssss, I know
that’s the spicy double entendre
we’ve all been waiting for!
Is there any goodness
left to find outside
these concentric circles
we labyrinth within?
Clutch my sweaty hands,
sing a song that
leads me toward home,
and the safety
we all crave
in this unknowing place.
April Ridge lurks in the rural hilltops of Monroe County, Indiana, akin to Mothman’s tomboy cousin, listening for hints of poetry on the wind. She enjoys horror films, the sordid affairs of 1920s circus performers, long walks in pitch black tunnels and the occasional waffle cone from Jiffy Treet. April prides herself on finding the perfect outfit in which to adorn the skeleton of the soul. She hopes to highlight the needs of poems in danger, on the run, escaping from the need to fit into one form or another, on their way to the freedom of epiphany. Her work has appeared sporadically in deep space, circling black holes until the dinner bell of eternal fame rings in its echoing chambers. She is the author of Monstrous (Pure Sleeze Press, 2024), A Three Night Affair (Keeping The Flame Alive Press, 2025), Even the Daffodils Are Trying (Crying Heart Press, 2025) and forthcoming chapbook Pareidolia (Pure Sleeze Press, 2026).
