The Dismal Paramilitary Parade

Get back in your homes. Get back in your cells.

Hear something whistling? A canister just popped in your yard and it’s rolling, spinning, emptying freedom into the air. A freedom that restores order. It reminds you of what we can do to you.

Listen to your neighbor in the house on the right. He’s talking to his AM radio about law and order. Law and order. He’s talking about us.

Look at your neighbor in the house on the left. She’s complaining about state power. State power. The same power she’s been celebrating for five years.

Feel the hand of the state around your throat. This is what hope feels like. This is the change you needed. Our muscles twitch and vibrate with power. Our guns sing beautiful stories of civilization. Our teargas may blur your vision, but our clubs bring it into tight focus. You will listen. You will remember what happens when you raise your voice.

The heroes are here. Get off that bench. Open that bag. Empty those pockets. Don’t move. Stop crying. Stop fighting. Turn off that camera. Power is doing its dance and we don’t allow recording of the performances, sorry.

It may seem harsh but we’re only teaching you a lesson. Every stomp of the boot, every crack of the cudgel is just to get it into your heads. Whenever it rains you will remember—this is what happens when you stand up after we’ve told you to sit down.

Let the tanks roll through the suburbs, past the mini malls and the drive-through burger joints. Let the rubber bullets sing through the night and put the animals to rest.
Empty the streets for the dismal paramilitary parade.

We will be the only sound you hear. And you will listen.