Who am I to feel entitled to magic?
This impossible thing that serves as means to fulfillment to so many.
Who am I to expect the arrival of that piece to the puzzle?
Still, it is so unique, it won’t fit anywhere else.
Who am I to make this something I need to survive?
I’ve already received so much. I’ve already thrown away so close.
Who am I to ache over its absence?
I’ve never, in reality, experienced a feasible version of it.
And what is it to mean so much to me?
Opiate, object of my addiction.
Looking for it in every pipe, in every pill bottle.
Licking the inside of the bag so that I may claim every last drop.
Its promise is sold on every corner.
Its trinkets fill the closet.
Just one more hit, I beg of it.
Clinging to ghosts
Humming conversations older than they
Masticating pieces stuck between teeth
Sucking every last drop out
Letting go means falling
But it’s time to let go
I’ve got to get you out of me
I’ve got to get you out of me
I will never fly if I can’t fall
I can’t say these wings are strong enough to give flight
But I’m so tired of holding on
Abused by a man. And I am granted sympathy and empathy. Abused by a man of African ancestry. But I am granted no sympathy or empathy. Suddenly we are “black” and “white”. I represent the reason the man has had a hard life. While I never personally did anything to harm this man or anyone of African decent, I represent a long history of oppression and have benefited from it. Wether this benefit was willful or not is irrelevant. I recognize the double standard that says this man can abuse me, but I could not him. Not that I would want to. Now I begin to approach all people of African decent with caution. I understand our contrasting colors of skin grant them the right to be abusive. “Black” people who have not been abusive toward me in the past are viewed as safe. But “black” people I’ve yet to establish a safe history with would be justified in being abusive. I’m told I am their social enemy. Suddenly, I see the world in “black” and “white”, polar opposites. We were once brothers. But the word “brother” has been viewed as a racial slur. So now, I try to only call people of European decent “brother”. We are not people with different colored skin. We are “black” people and “white” people. And those who aim to divide us have succeeded. If I try to bridge the divide, I am view as one who is just trying to be a “white savior”. I want to help only so that I will be revered by the less fortunate “black” people. And if I don’t try to help bridge the gap, I am willingly taking advantage of this “racist” system. There is no winning here. But maybe it’s time for someone else to win. The arbitrary shade of a person’s skin is enough to make us blind to the fact that the only color that really matters is green.
But no. I recognize the aim to divide. I recognize the double-standard as arbitrary. I refuse to buy in to the idea that we are inherently different. I am not responsible for the oppression of people of African dissent. I’ve always had nothing but love in my heart. I know I tend to benefit from a system that only sees skin deep. But division isn’t the answer. Those of us who only see skin deep propitiate this system. I refuse to be part of it. One’s skin color should not grant him/her the right to anything. This includes income, but also participation in social clubs. This division benefits none of us. We are brothers and sisters. We are in this together.
An attraction deeper than the shape of skin that raises toy soldiers to attention
A connection overflowing from the dopamine receptors of the brain
A reason to feel pain, a reason to ache for the possession
of ones obsession. A reason to bleed until one is bloodless, knowing for the first time how the word “red” does not do it justice.
It’s just this when we try to hold it. It burns when we mold it and never quite fits
It never quite fills and yet somehow spills over and over
Breaking ventricles, inspiring the firing of a heart made of clay
Until one day after bowing and breaking so many times heart ache means awaking
Shaking loose powdered brick left from so many attacks
This aortic valve decorated by cracks
It beats now more slowly and has a weakened frame
And is still home to Rome all the same
But now Roma can flow freely through
We always knew. Open eyes. Open heart. Open mind.
We are one.
Every color. Every sweet sound. Every symptom of beauty.
Floating on forever into our own conscious oblivion.
Words relative to these bodies cannot begin to describe the life, the whole divinity infinitely wrapping us in tears of elation that fall from the sky to which we may be blind but have never been strangers. And with this prayer, “Si Roma”, we awake to a world of no fear, no pain, only the game. And it is time to run. Blue 3 smell of gun powder floats in the air. And palpitations sustain this trivial venture of pain and pleasure.