Safety Brief
Siren Hand

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One wrong move: that curb becomes my headstone.
I saw it in American History X and didn’t know 
that cruelty could happen in real life  
until the news showed it. The cop pushed
the old man backwards, his head cracked back against the brick. 
The blood poured from his ear and pooled baptismal, 

a halo around the whole puddle

Be(/ a)ware: this time
stay on the sidewalks.

The woman driving the van in Monument Circle
said she feared for her life when she stepped on the gas.
He punched out her back window, 
sliced his arm on the shards as she swerved past him.
 When you think the march is over, leave immediately. 
In Bloomington, another woman tore through us 
after driving two hours, fuming 
from the protest announcement in the papers.
Neither of  them used their horns.

Do not drink water offered to you 
by someone you don’t know.  
The video showed how people can poison it all
without breaking the tamper seal.

Do not march through the streets here, this time.
Do not block oncoming traffic with your vehicles:
they will press charges when you draw on their revving engines. 

Link arms like in Brazil. Protect the organizers.
Don’t be shaken by the Fourth of  July fireworks 
outside the ICE Facility—
 double-barrel pressed into the protestor chest



 waiting for first flinch.
Make sure protestors with wheelchairs and walkers
are not being harassed or targeted;
The march pace reaches fever pitch and the bullhorn, 
 chanting pulls away from 2.5 miles an hour.
Tear to the highway back through Nazi-salute lined sidewalks.

Watch for their horses, switch the route up to confront head on:
otherwise they will kettle. 
The tear gas is expired 
could concentrate here, 
             explode like a gender reveal bomb, 
 Congrats!  It’s expired! It’s inhumane!
all wildfires starting with inspired spark.

The old man’s skull is cradled
firmly by cracks of  the sidewalk, 
concrete angel cooing:
Shhh, shh.  Because of  this, 
perhaps this year things will change.

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