I come to realize that we’re all Matryoshka dolls doing what we can to degrade the people around us, to feel a millimeter taller than our predecessor. I suppose that’s progress: grades painted in the blood of the people, but the test was in a language we can’t read. The door is barred. We’re all tired. We want to go home. There’s no end in sight. Didn’t hear talk of an end. It just rattles misshapen and defeated as if bureaucracy were a natural state.
Long live the king
The liberal loved
Long live the assimilated
That stands for the very thing
That raped his ancestors for generations
The very thing that tells him
He isn’t enough
Long Live the King
That lives as the example
Of the white devils worst tyranny
That red lined ghettoed
Long Live the King
That to the rest of us will still be a negro
That will further progress
The progressive illusion
Equally as far from the working class
Pushed beneath the skin
Only those diagnosed
Are the ones that feel that pain.
The words dance behind bloodshot eyes like the tip of a flame around the jet fueled cylinder. Swatting at phrases and stories liable for redemption, hoping that this catch will finally get you on the map. That they’ll all be wrong about you and your “success,” as make believe as a small girls dreams of a unicorn, or a middle age man’s plea with fate in playing the lottery.
All I see are pictures. Pictures of my boy hung upside down. Eyes swollen shut. Suspended in the air by over-sized fishhooks traced through his inner organs and workings, wound together like mother’s knitting.
How dark can it get? How far can I travel into the recesses of my brain to find the images that disturb and outrage? How can I be so desensitized to the thought of my own father mutilated and maimed by the hands of terrorism? Or shrapnel tearing through Vietnamese children like a chainsaw cutting through paper?