“Ask me about my patches”

Was written in Sharpie on a piece of cardboard hung by string and Duck tape from
his backpack.

I didn’t dare ask.
I was late.

The image of hipster: gauged ears, lip and nose pierced, cut-off jacket vest, tight
black jeans, —and patches.

I didn’t dare ask him.
But I was forced to read the large one sewn across his back.

That’s when I realized my first judgment was wrong. Not an image: he was a force,
his patches his power.

That was all just a glance, just a memory of a patch of the face of a woman
with streaked black hair, a tear? its fading... but the words won’t.

The words that I won’t tell; the words that carry with them the power of
the history of man.

Not of humans, of man: man who has ruled this world, man who has buried mother earth
(alive) deep inside herself.

Who pinned her down and penetrated all orifices— inserting, and removing and inseminating;
making her pregnant with *******.

Man—men—when did we do this? Who was the first among us to realize his
superior strength?

I don’t dare ask because I am not ready for the answer.
I am not ready to ask myself the questions that I feel but don’t know.

I realize when I pass someone on the street, I don’t know anything—every woman I see at
night has a past, every man and every child.
I don’t know any of it.

But, I do know some about the history of man.