Where to Be. Through It All.
What should I let myself believe in?
Should it be a faded false flag which has snap-waved
itself into tatters,
while mongers of oppression wrap themselves
in spoils at its feet.
They will only tell you their truth while wearing a disguise
with heel clicking and arm bands.
How did it get to be the ordinary order of things
is now passing away?
How did it get to be a head fake and a head shake
should come to be truth?
By using wobbly lips — that slip?
Because we now find the birth of a single huffing breath
can blow out a candle trying to unveil the way.
I have a stiff neck and never desired to nod agreement.
Instead, tears run down and overflow
the creases in my neck.
And I stand in the shadow cast by plate glass
where heart beats show through.
Heart beats muffled in invented protocols.
Inhumanity exists within the seeming bloodless.
And their vices roll to full height, seven-fold.
Do not be confused by the professed love
of indiscriminate stridents,
who consort with serpents.
Are we to be served only by the likes of
root doctors and conjure men?
Empowered via a throne of drums.
Proclaiming if things could be different in some way,
they will then be Brand New.
They will say answers cower
beneath overhanging eves of wrong beliefs,
where doubts are stashed alongside.
Where there is insufficient knowledge,
and they know better.
Afterall, they proclaim no evil; only goodness.
If you want to gain insight into what it feels like to be beaten,
do not talk to those who have never been.
They do not know the corporeality of coercion.
And there will be no beater about your feet
to flush out the birds of truth.
Oppressors know to tell you what you want to hear
while wearing feathered camouflage,
fletching and all.
I never realized it is the spinning of the earth
that causes the moon to rise.
And the spinning of phrases is an attempt
to put yeast and leaven in your blood to get you
to rise red hot.
But I clap and clang on about my needs.
Aware, because it is the future,
I dare not commit it to memory.
I carry all these things
within my stamped, self-addressed, unopened envelope.
To be opened, only if I cannot be found.
“Let cobwebs grow on their barbed wires.”
I make no cry for help.
Only a cry for where to be, through it all.