Capturing History with an Old Brush

Hope has died tonight
this new ugliness
paints us all with old rage.

Mink hairs pulled from the ferrule
leave trails to divide us
into a faux-unity of seething peace.

Stand silent in this true slavery
of one message, one artist, one love
one vision, and the sanctity of death.

Let go of hope:
the old paradigm is dead,
all of the colors now are gray.

No more green, No more blue, No More red,
only the selfish slog of a smeared  palate
and his new history written black on white.

When you ask me to look ahead
to every bold new canvas, so that I can make out
the differences of shade and tone - the twilight
that owns the future.

I will ignore your artistry and look back,
at the bitter red plastic hearts ticking together
like a bomb waiting to create Jackson Pollock.