Rogue Wave

stepped off the train
and looked for fruitvale signs
the january air it rips across my spine
we’ve been suffering
the six days since he died
I saw a picture of his mother as she cried
go to where the people go
we’ll dig some piece of mind
and it burns, hot, real
to feel this feel
they’re setting clothes to flame
an imaginary sun
they’ll lay their boot heel down
for a solitary gun
the hand that punches it’s own face
it begs for more again