The Stories, The Poems, and The Prose of Nadine Sellers

To cover with a cloth.
To pull the proverbial wool.
Surveillance, my friend asphyxiates the very existence of the blind.
No time to coddle the masses, we've got work to do.
A revolution foments in dissatisfaction, with deep rumble asunder.
The bus may have passed, my friend, but the working poor will walk.
While the Bolsheviks are busy collecting middle class rubles,
the Pakistanis are clearing out rubble.
The Iraqui are digging up trouble.
We've got a pernicious enemy within, and his name is not Terror.
He reads your fingerprinted mail and scans your e-lines.
He lives next door and will sell your address for a nickel.
You will be counted and accounted for twice.
Inspected and tagged for every thought behind your little biometric eyes.
You will be misrepresented for each cookie and keystroke you lose.
From London to Lisbon, they will follow you,
A red dot on your anonymous forehead;
your id and your ID merged in virtual cognizance.
You will recognize the numbing effect.
Then you will become indistinguishable from them.
The butcher who knows you to be an inveterate vegan.
The banker who weighs your worth with high interest.
They will resent you and present your numbers with ease of replication,
like that flat piece of plastic in your pocket.

Honey? Is the jerky in the bunker? How about batteries?
Forget it junior can pedal the dynamo and crank the flashlight.
Let's roll, it's time to rumba!...