[The lines of the hands formed a complex map]

Reality strikes
The days pass by
Two lines
Different seasons
Separate stations

[Reality hitting on the rocks]

Curve line erasing the good things of the past
2 drops of water falling on the way to the office
  |        |
  |        |
  |        |  Old soundtrack passes over parallel tracks
Theater full, broken line

Days pass and pass
Birthdays pass, not words
Difficult to pretend to be well
No words happen

Places I’m not, line closed
Places you are not, closed line

Romanticism doesn’t feel the same as maps on our maps
2 parallel drops fall
|                               |
The game hits me against the rocks
You don’t follow me in a straight line

[Reality catches me]

there are no words
there is nothing
thick fog

The same lines
Now they are parallel
Your reality hits

[The lines in my hand no longer form a map]

   - Codelandandmore // 4:00 PM ©

Eat drama food
  Oct 2016 Mucro Pondera Divinus
Corvus

I don't know if I'll ever be able to say the word
For what you did, or even spell it out in any language.
Then again, perhaps I've been shouting it through so many
Forms of communication that I let it out every time I breathe.
Maybe it's the way I flinch under my lover's touch;
The way I never let my own body come to her, how it freezes, waits for her first.
How I see your face in every remotely-threatening figure,
And I see their faces, your minions, in the smaller figures that surround you.
Sometimes it's hard to see myself as a survivor,
When sometimes, the only reminders that I'm alive are nightmares.
How their movements shake me awake,
And I can still remember how you taste.
There are times when it tastes like ash, because I burn the memories
With the fuel of self-destruction and I sweat myself to sleep.
Maybe it's that, half the time, I see masculinity only as a devil,
And the other half, it's a quality so far removed from my being
That I'm not really sure if I can call myself a man
Without being at least half a liar.

Five years old and they
   could not hear me in the backyard --
   I called out, the gate was locked and
  the screen door frayed at the handle
  was locked too -- I could see it --
  and they still couldn't hear me and I
     was afraid and the handle
     was frayed too and my little finger
         just barely fit through and then
             aunt Lucy came and made sure
                 that I was punished.

(The reward for my fear was
the most frightening and humiliating
experience of my childhood)

                   I hid.

"Get out here!" my father yelled
and his voice made me flinch and
trembling I unhid.

       my uncle and aunt watched
as my father spanked me
harder and angrier than ever before,

       my uncle and aunt watched
the shock of every blow
reverberating
through my tiny body
                                    until

       my uncle and aunt watched
everything let go
and I pissed myself on the floor
in front of them

weeping and violated

I do not remember what was said after

they left the room and
I was alone with my shame
while the sun fell the walls
faded blue the ride home
was silent --

-- all over some torn netting
      and doors they should not have locked.

I hope it was worth it.

Racism is the belief
that humankind is not
united in species but
divided by ethnic heritage

that race, a superstitious
social construct used
to Other and oppress,
is more real than genetics

   this world teaches
   identification with boxes
   in its busy ignorance


More pernicious yet
is this mysterious whiteness
that infects all so-called races

   such that light-skinned Spaniards
   would look down on dark-skinned gauchos

      fair-skinned Chinese nobles
      disdained the tan-skinned herders

         and African-Americans are treated differently
         by police and their own communities
         if they have lighter skin

            Meanwhile, for so-called whites
            it has become quaint
                   to consider the Irish black

               and the fashion is now
               to include whomever is drafted

                  in the army of the privileged.

Herein lies the key:

rich and powerful whites
convinced poor and disempowered whites
that they were on the same side

and nobody noticed it was bullshit

so we call it the land of the free

but we're enslaved
by colorism

Inspired by this article.

http://everydayfeminism.com/2015/02/light-skinned-privilege/

If anyone is curious, I'm multi-ethnic.

There is naught
which is not
That which is Not

A prayer for the wise.

When writing about oneself
ceases to scratch that awful
self-absorbed itch,

and the heart realizes
that writing about others
and what they've done to us
is the same itch masked
in a fresh disguise,

the trail of words
leads away from "I"  --

   like breadcrumbs
   dropped at intervals
      for poetic feet
         to follow --

            -- at last finding the untamed

where one is more than a mouthpiece
for sorrow or rage,

   for ignorant opinion or
       self-righteous argument  --

where the horizons are bounded
not by fear but imagination --

The irony: what one keeps thinking about,
one keeps thinking about
convinced that integrity depends
on never letting go.

Egotism
fettered by a soul
feels sorriest for itself.

Ruminating about oneself and one's problems creates the habit of unhappiness. What we think about shapes our perceptions.

If we think about nothing but ourselves - our comfort, our entertainment, our disappointments, whether others please us - should it be any wonder that life is unfulfilling?

My advice to all seekers of self-knowledge, wisdom, happiness, and truth:

Believe *only* what makes you laugh.

Dazzled by
the glamour of robber barons,
   a rape fetishist
      shills for feudal revival
         ambidextrously flogging
      bleach-white equestrian bones
   eventually dying
a looter's death.

Ayn Rand was a Russian-born American novelist, philosopher, playwright, and screenwriter. (via Wikipedia)

Mortified at Trump's presidential campaign, I can't help but think of it as the logical conclusion of garbage philosophy.

The "rape fetishist" thing may seem provocative for those unfamiliar with her work. A review of the sex scenes in The Fountainhead and Atlas Shrugged should provide context.

My partner pointed out that mentioning it at all might be perceived as slut-shaming. She makes a worthwhile point, so to clarify - that's not my intent, and my sincere apologies to anyone who might be offended.

Rather, it seems metaphorically apt as a description of American politics - the powerlessness we seem to display every four years in the torrent of  manipulative, exploitive electoral pandering. When will we finally tire of it?

I imagine Rand would have voted for Trump.
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