by Susan Cameron
(And I'm glad Santa Ana has calmed down tremendously compared to back then).
I fling my bulletproof vest on the chair and open my first beer.
We worked the war zone on Third Street tonight.
My adrenaline's still pumping, nerves jumping,
heart thumping, body ready for flight or fight;
Genghis Khan would get his ass capped if he rolled up here.
Kafka couldn't invent this place. Teenage killers roam
while their parents cower trembling behind window bars.
Their bullets play with babies: "Tag, you're hit!"
And that's it. Tiny coffins, processions of beat-up cars
head to the graveyard to take the innocents home.
This story is as old as time, as old as Cain and Abel,
as old as I feel right now. But Attila the Homeboy is young.
He rips through flesh and crunches bone, a predator high on
testosterone and unconcerned with right or wrong.
There's no guilt or redemption in this fable.
So off we went to war again -- blue suits versus black,
shirts and skins -- to make the world safe; another story
you've heard before. The players change but the game
stays the same. We busted a hundred and got some glory;
but they'll make bail, and they'll be back.
Susan Cameron, copyright 1998
