rise of the anarchist

there's a boy with fire in his armpits,
keeps him standing upright
though psyche and genetics would have him crawling.
somehow he's found himself in the trenches
of an american apathy not his---
he rails and lashes out.

the incurable poor swarm at his feet.
he is their scarecrow.
a town crier in a bleak city,
his voice echoes off the white and silver.
he decries the government its failings,
says it has abandoned its people.