Thirty years ago, Miami caught fire after the mindless beating of an insurance salesman. I took Leon home that night from work. An African American and a Latino were as likely to become friends as a Jihadist and a Marine during those days. But there I was dropping the guy off on 62nd street into the heart of Liberty City. The National Guardsman, with his M16 tightly held high on his chest expressed his incredulity by simply telling me I was crazy being there, and promptly asked Leon out of the car to be searched. I watched Leon walk on down 62nd Street, into the halogen glow muted by the smoke of burning tires and stores, and homes. Somebody's car, somebody's business, somebody's house. He walked dutifully to his wife and two children, while I sped off back south on I95, to a Kendall suburb, to a middle class neighborhood untouched by the devastation except for what was on the tube.
The age of protest was ending. I didnt know it at the time, but the American Public was being tamed and tied to a box with a screen, and today you'll hear greater protests that one's Iphone doesnt have enough bandwith than against a souless Corporation thats shitting on our heads in the Gulf. Our age shall be defined by our Gulfs, and we are silenced with a Twitter.
Is this poetry or prose? Who gives a f**k!
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