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On Willow Oak
Baltimore County, Anarcho-Tyranny Test Project: North: 2:30 P.M., 1/13/17

The cool morning has given way to a blustery day,

Scudding cloud pushing north and east, cloaking the sun,

Bleakly crowning the brownstone homes.

Heel-to-toe, hips level, making the feet roll, increasing the incline—wondering how many blocks is too far—the point of a hobbling return,

Not conducive to a return of prowess.

The easy way is down Willow Oak,

Amongst the pathetically unimaginative lanes:

Red Oak,

Rock Oak,

White Oak—


And to think, the kook says, "All in Oakliegh!"

Shouldn't such creatures as inhabit

Such slapped-together warrens be overrun by a feral breed?

Is not, "The Corna where Pookie banked MeMaw fo his Ipod,"

More in keeping with the spirit of Achilles—

Than the yawning labeling of domesticating dens according to commercial jingle?

At the base of Willow Oak,

I have counted seven signs,

Seven signs of the Master—

State-flag cutouts announcing the second wave of invasion,

Seven houses left by fleeing rabbits,

Bought by subsidized housing speculators,

Seven houses

Slapped-dashed together by this rude crew before me:

A rough man barking orders at soon-to-be-drunk men,

Hastily installing the habitation hardware that will be stripped of copper by the criminal occupants before they move on...

A half mile home to the ill-comforted beauty

Baking the turkey in the oven—

Buzz-saw like, the woolen-headed buck of 14 speeds by on a dirt bike...

Fat-tired and red, the bike is for elsewhere,

Should not appear here until post-overrun,

Until fully half of the inhabitants are criminals.

Heel-to-toe I gingerly march—

Irritatingly slow but correct,

Only two tons of freight to break tonight—on the mend.

Feeling fit for the shift ahead

I look up as a strong paleface youth sprints after the biker

Calling behind me over his shoulder.

Behind slaps a foot,

Asks a voice:

"Sir, did you see my bike?"

He is an athletic 15, blonde and thoughtfully direct.

"Yes, hundred-en-ten pound Dindu, nappy head, fourteen, red shirt."

"They took it right out of the yard—house next to the school—cops said they're coming."

We make eye-contact and I lower my voice, "You know you're in a hoodrat overrun situation?"

"Yes, sir, absolutely."

"Then don't get separated from your brother at sundown. Good luck."

"Yes, sir!" he panted as he ran off in the direction of the raspy throttle and his brother's hoarse call.

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