It's a poem about breathing room,
about oxygen and sinking
ships and castaways,
the space between
ladder rungs,
the
distance
to the ground,
the prostitution of labor,
and the digital slave collar.
It's about rent and wifi,
race and replacement.
It's about a wife teaching
herself to cook.
It's about heatin' or eatin'
and warm November nights.
It's about chronic pain,
the dislocation of
time and space,
questions
of
dignity
and autonomy,
and the hope of
dawn in a dark world.
It's about clean water
and chestnut trees.
It's about degenerates
and the laughter of hyenas.
It's about what cannot be written,
what cannot be spoken,
it's about a daydream,
about what I would
say and won't,
it's about
how
you would
despise me if
you knew what I believed.
It's about the value of truth.
It's about the folk awakening.
It's about the redefinition of prosperity.
It's about sidestepping Abrahamic coercion.
It's about a parasite in the blood
that must be cleansed with fire.
It's a poem I haven't written yet.
It's a poem we must write together.
November 14, 2024
