You have to dig a lot deeper than the color of his skin, the metal on his face, a scowl plastered tattoo, to get to the meat and bones…
…that he is one of us, cut from the same dark, undulating cloth, known as freedom. We are flesh, rising like cream to the top. When we reach our Promised Land, we will truly be as gods. Above the epileptic seizures that guide our worst instincts, from the top down, to the bottom half, dogs in heat, gripped by Nature to invade, penetrate, pillage, rape.
Only man has the audacity to call it something else. Women wrap tinsel and glitter around the monster between our legs, dividing us, causing us untold addictions.
Rise above, the little god in our side pocket says.
I saw man fold into the One, embers, specks falling from the blue sky.
Dress these graves. Sing pretty. Lay your pretty dresses all over the dead. Call it Thanksgiving, or Easter.
We are dirt, pretending to be stardust.
We all go back to the same source. None better than the other.
For artifice is the greatest sin.
Originally published at https://carolbankswebercoggie.wordpress.com on November 29, 2020.
“Can we please talk about…?!”
“I’m sorry. I can’t stop laughing!”
“They slaughter minks for those lashes!”
“My cat have JB eyes.”