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  • The police were spread out on JFK boulevard over two blocks. Scores of them; in packs on bikes, stepping down in heavy boots from vans and trucks, and clustered together in huddles, the blue and white of their uniforms, the silver and gold metallic glint of their badges and the black matte of their holstered weapons all like props in some too vivid cabaret. The stage was the first day of May, my favorite month.
    It had rained heavily just before dawn. A grey whispering drizzle proceded through the morning. But round about noon, the skies had cleared leaving big, soft, apologetic white clouds dispersing like embarrassed elephants. So the sun shone down as the protestors took to the streets. A diversity of causes bring them together, but the unified message is clear. We want a change of power, a paradigm shift, a new regime, before its too late.
    But the state is unmoved. There are three officers to every protestor easily, and maybe five bystanders for every cop. Truly a spectacle to behold. The kids feign undauntedness. But the fear is palpable. Which of them may fall to the rear of their fragile herd, and, like a sickly calf, become prey to the dogs of war. The protestors brandish no weapons, save a willingness to be martyred. And this is too dangerous a weapon. The cops, in packs, like dogs, seethe with their desire to crack open some skulls and allow that ideology and discontent to spill out and paint the macadam.
    The worker bees look out from their blue glass hives and judge the revolters. "Get a job," they slur and buzz from their little, handheld, electronic podiums. There minds are plugged into the system. Their roles as faceless cogs in the unfathomable machine seem too vital to them to risk. They despise the kids for illuminating the inadequacy of the present. How dare we articulate problems for which no solution is manifest. And so they work on, buzzing with confusion and apathy, earning their wage, another day in front of the plasma. The royal jelly rises to the top, the sweet nectar of a millenium of suffering.
    Inside us each roils a cauldron, the collective stew of all that has been frothing over the edges of the kettle that is we. How much more blood is needed to season this soup?
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