Double Double Toil And Trouble

by Michael Rhynes
Attica Worship Group

Content warning from the author: There’s a couple of strong words here that may be offensive. But they are not as offensive as an African American being killed on TV for the whole world to see.

The silence between the veil of darkness and dawn is meditative and horrendous. The beast within the darkness never slumbers, it never snores. In its domesticated state it hums with technological might. Though it appears to be in a Morpheus-like state, it is ever vigilant. It prowls through veins and arteries, sniffing each cell, looking for dreamers. While its white blood cells, wearing blue arm bands, patrol the corridors of its lair. Making sure the red blooded human virus, prisoners, are contained.

As the twilight of democracy wanes, it finds a prisoner sitting squarely in the belly of the beast, in a bastardized position of “The Thinking Man.” With his head drooping downward towards apathy, one fist isn’t enough, so he places both fists on his weary temples. He’s not Atlas, but he will not shrug his moral obligation to witness.

For what seems like four score and seven years ago, he’s been quarantined. In the belly that became his castle by gubernatorial fiat. He’s become a contemporary version of Hamlet’s father, who’s only allowed to communicate via machines. In fact he’s the ghost in the machine, who flickers in and out at inappropriate times like “Breaking News.”

As he sits in his bubble, he sees trouble as white blood cells march on the double. While protesters chant not rant, “GIVE US BREATH OR GIVE US DEATH!”

There’s been a breach, the belly rumbles, the military fumbles. The beat uses its art by releasing a poisonous fart. The people screech as they retreat down the street. Not to be beat, they tweet; their retort, is not to abort. Let’s get the rascal who hides in the White Castle.

The Bread and Circuses were gone until Bubba gave his rebel yell, grabbing that ole flag by the tail. A sport that sprang from crime, right on time, banning that traitorous rage.

The people protest there’s something rotten in Minneapolis, so George Floyd won’t be forgotten. The three witches of power plan to quiet the land by tightening the leash on the police. Trump, McConnell, and Nancy, bend over their legislative pots concocting a plot to swat the cop. Knowing full well they’ve been part of the pollution, now they’re being forced to be part of the solution.

In the beast’s lair the three witches prepare. Round about the cauldron go.

In the poisoned entails throw.

Black Lives Matter, to make the brew fatter.

Double, double, toil and trouble.

In the cauldron boil and bake.

Tongue of Floyd.

Vagina of Taylor.

Penis of Aubury.

Nuts of Brooks.

Buttocks of Grey.

A pinch of Travon’s skin.

With a touch of McClain’s foreskin, just to blend.

Cool it with a baboon’s blood.

The charm is firm and good .

No national police reform for the ’hood.