Sickle Round Rear to Center

How many angles does it take to get to your pink origins?

It’s the Bilderbergers on motorbikes and Shriners in tiny cars.

Arise! Move your Bottoms to All Faces Park! Protect Your Dogs, And Then Walk Forcefully, Keeping the Kids On Scooters in a cloud –

“Like a cloud of electrons, mommy?”
“Yes dear, just like a cloud of electrons around the proton.”
“What about the neutron?”
“Yes dear, of course, and the neutron.”
“Who is that man, mommy?”
“Don’t worry darlings, he’s harmless. He lives here.”

The Way the Poison Yields the Antidote

I wish for a poem like a misplaced object –
Say, a toilet brush on a step-stool on a city sidewalk.

No personality, no politics – but JARRING.
No ambition. No means. Towards no end.

That way, people could look at it and shrug:
“That doesn’t belong here”;
“Hmmm.”;
“Where did it come from?”

Never do they suspect
That someone had made it
And put it there.

Something common, something out of place,
A piece of ignorance, an obstacle created
From knowingness,
A suspension, insoluble, sticky –
A blue-ink drawing of a crowd executed
Without dropping eyes from faces,
Without lifting pen from paper.