Do sheep dream of sheep or do they count people stuck in traffic? The panic of a
savage taming a wolf when the beast speaks back. The camera wades through the water, capturing kids nods in agreement. Programmed calls of “file down claws/clause and catalogue them as ‘a cause lost in symmetry.” Initially sparked by marionette leaders, hollow at most, filled with a slithering visage of a broken host. Button pushed by twitching withering hand. Fork to glutton. Expand. Weakened, raped mothers leaking completely covered in flags. Now, how amazing is that grace? Can this race end? Will enslavement have a taste dragging me further as I bathe? Their beacon of light is a crack in the wall so of course the children are violent. Blank stare legions meander as every star loses its name to science. Some find thoughts of a formula a stifling, self sufficient prison. Can’t blame them, (we were) raised on concrete fiction just to live within its restrictions. Its a survivalist tradition under revival. Drum circle of indignations. Taking to streets yet only armed with snark for a red summer...

Taking to the streets yet only armed with snark for a red summer doesn’t make change, it makes traffic. While at it, #OccupyBandwith. Replace every gun with a mirror. Deface every son with micro-aggression. Last century was littered with despots feeding flowers to rifles. Photogenic. Black Flag flooded brains living in hash tag frame. Erupting in teddy bear crushing fury. Lead in the sweat, drenched. Death embedded in debt incentive. To folding Che into cynicism: its pixel burning. Obtuse rebellion. Is your face willing to adorn scars? Mourn kidnappings? Since there is some “Hello Kitty” in your indignation... in tandem with sore thumbs. Summers are pregnant with gun powder and heavy breathing flowing through leather lungs while mouthing forgotten holidays. Show me how much Church clothes block bullets! Or How Pulitzers approaching invented sickness do no more than thicken plots when once tamed jungles, now they encage humble and engage in victim narrative. Until the molotov phoenix is labeled savage, I brand it “Freedman’s Spring” and moor light towards unwashed hands to reinforce public humanity when a woman tries to tell me about a march but won’t listen about my cousin. Somewhere, there are a sea a faces that will never it home and people profiting from where there grave sits. Heroes who angels were replaced with corpses yet will never be considered King Makers. Here? We measure freedoms in acres, paint purge papers and play hangman with neighbors bloodlines. Sometimes the Sun Times captures sunshine on caution tape at angles that create halos atop of tragedy. We been busy burying words for acceptance so overly embarrassed we neglected that if we kept what we carried than American is common sense. So... is this the center? Singing our way out of slaughter pretending they hear us above being white noise to them and their religion. Maybe we are the sinners. Revolting against a truly slave nature fooled by a deep history into believe that our humanity is valid. Nah! this is the Cinder! Residue of pillage empires that rebuilds itself, Escher like, into an image of modern cog at most shinier the championed. Y’all fein surprised at the explosion and try prune the truth and remove subversive bits so it takes the shape of a foot note.

I don’t identify as “victim” nor does validation make the machine work.