“Okay, I won’t forget.”
Fingers tapping,
toes tapping in the secrecy of her socks—1, 2, 3
1, 2, 3 1, 2, 3, 4
1, 2, 3
1, 2, 3
1, 2, 3, 4
Drowning in anxiety for so many reasons— hoping for more than 3 hours of sleep a night, shitting more than twice a week, the recent lynchings of three black people—in three different states, trying to form the words to say, “this is killing me!” without saying this is killing me, so that she could organize herself to organize her family and friends and neighbors and strangers to FIGHT the power; to attempt to write when her mind could think of nothing but rage. Or exhaustion.
It was clearly too much. To great a task. Probably insurmountable. Her phones were tapped and most people secretly wished she would be quiet. They wanted to keep pretending everything was fine, just fine—“without knowing they were pretending.” Even though injustice and slaughter raged and quaked before the virus, they frantically hoped that things would go back to the way it was. “Please, be quiet, so that I can sleep again,“ they prayed.
Although her steps were heavy and her heart was constantly racing with some kind of, fear—knowing she would one day wind up hanging from a tree in Sherman Oaks, the words would not cease spitting from her throat and spilling out of her pen; she could not be quiet. She could not pretend. She was always incapable of that.
November 18, 2020, 10:12 pm:
In a hot sweat, she jumped out of her sleep, heart pounding, uttering in a continuous loop, she overheard herself saying —Fight the power
Fight the power
Fight the power
Fight the power
Fight the power Fight the power Fight the power
Fight the power
FIGHT the power
FIGHT the power
FIGHT the power
FIGHT the power
FIGHT the power
FIGHT the power
FIGHT the power
FIGHT the power
FIGHT................................................
Her God voice whispered in her left ear, “Do not forget to take care of yourself, love.”
toes tapping in the secrecy of her socks—1, 2, 3
1, 2, 3 1, 2, 3, 4
1, 2, 3
1, 2, 3
1, 2, 3, 4
Drowning in anxiety for so many reasons— hoping for more than 3 hours of sleep a night, shitting more than twice a week, the recent lynchings of three black people—in three different states, trying to form the words to say, “this is killing me!” without saying this is killing me, so that she could organize herself to organize her family and friends and neighbors and strangers to FIGHT the power; to attempt to write when her mind could think of nothing but rage. Or exhaustion.
It was clearly too much. To great a task. Probably insurmountable. Her phones were tapped and most people secretly wished she would be quiet. They wanted to keep pretending everything was fine, just fine—“without knowing they were pretending.” Even though injustice and slaughter raged and quaked before the virus, they frantically hoped that things would go back to the way it was. “Please, be quiet, so that I can sleep again,“ they prayed.
Although her steps were heavy and her heart was constantly racing with some kind of, fear—knowing she would one day wind up hanging from a tree in Sherman Oaks, the words would not cease spitting from her throat and spilling out of her pen; she could not be quiet. She could not pretend. She was always incapable of that.
November 18, 2020, 10:12 pm:
In a hot sweat, she jumped out of her sleep, heart pounding, uttering in a continuous loop, she overheard herself saying —Fight the power
Fight the power
Fight the power
Fight the power
Fight the power Fight the power Fight the power
Fight the power
FIGHT the power
FIGHT the power
FIGHT the power
FIGHT the power
FIGHT the power
FIGHT the power
FIGHT the power
FIGHT the power
FIGHT................................................
Her God voice whispered in her left ear, “Do not forget to take care of yourself, love.”
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