I Should Be Working


It’s 4:28 post meridiem.

I’m clocked in.

My computer is awake.

I’m staring at graphs of money being raised, supposedly

for people like me.

Those surviving a plague.

Being treated and administered by those who know best.

Those who are not at risk–ever.

Those who have never experienced it.

Survived it.

Lived it.

Love it.

Cried, snuggled, fucked, cursed, caressed, confided, hid, disclosed, embraced, dismembered, faught, killed, donned it.

I’m supposed to be working.

 

But something my soul don’t do shit quietly. Sitting quietly, obediently, on task is not something this black flesh has been conditioned to do.

I won’t.

I stew. I think. I marinate. I contemplate. I burn

Free

thoughts of black, brown, yellow, red, queer and poz skin unleashed

unshackled, unbought, unbossed

no knifes 9 inches deep or scarred tissue

festering around the oft-erased 6 inches of blade

that remains and pulses loudly,

deeply,

within the viral word of the knowing host

While the deliverer watches in amazement, concerned

fearful

shame(d)

that they “would complain about the blade, that we gave them for free! That was

good metal!”

They might as well exclaim.

Fairweather allies cut deeper, quicker and more precisely than a 

surgeons scapel. You’d know that, if you acknowledge the scratching against your heart

or the scars on your lungs

when you try

to

breathe

deeply. Some of us have forgotten what freedom tastes like.

We don’t remember because we have been dismembered from self, from us, from community, from life, liberty and love for freedom to be anything more than a taunting

a mirage

a false beckoning of an expired promissory note

cashed

but bounced back in the face of our foremothers.

We hate rejection.

We hate feeling weak, even as we accept our inaccess to power

so we won’t demand a full refund with interest.

We instead fight for crumbs of the dinner that was ours to begin with.

Native, Queer, BlaQue, Latin@, Asian, Taino, Boricua, Izquierdo, Palestinian

We don’t know the power, the story, the truth, the pain, the trauma, the love in the life force that flows through our brains.

I should be working.

But I’m too busy longing for the self that was lost in trans-atlantic translation and commerce.

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