Tag Archives: truth

2/30 – Privilege

Privilege is…

…the choice of forefathers to have come here, to have not arrived in chains.

…the ability to not be inherently more likely to be shot.

…whole personhood from the founding of the country of your birth.

…a lottery of melanin,
of economic status,
of opportunity.

…being able to discuss the advantages that I have inherently, because I pass,
gone are the circumspection of circumcision,
gone are quarrelsome curls that announce my otherness,
gone my kippa and tzitzit that says that I’m Hebrew,
Kike, Christ-killer, Juden, Jew,
and Roma, Kalderashi, there is nowhere to call home,
pogroms should be all I know –
privilege is not having ever been driven from somewhere,
my ancestors on either side never knew such,
black men and women in America have never known such,
the First Peoples here have never known such,
the Mexican People have never known such,
this land is built on the bodies of “others” brought here,
granted no rights and worked to their deaths,
privilege is being able to shrug this inhumane history off ourselves.

…perpetual because we’ve let it.

…running rampant because we believe there are more of them,
or that they are more powerful,
but we are what we have always been,
we are WHO we have always been,
the oppressed,
the irreverent,
the dreamers,
the believers,
we are righteous in our indignation,
we are at the end of our rope,
we are ready for revolution,
we cannot have more of the same,
privilege is the right of the strong and the lame.

…available to us all. It is ours for the taking.

…being at the precipice of this coming change.

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Hope – NaPoWriMo #20

Story peddler, word merchant,
everywhere I turn there’s a tale to be told, all urgent:
There’s an old man urchin with the same duct tape shoes
that rode the bus with me earlier today –
I guess we all must pay our dues.

Every clue, every missile,
every residual epistle,
every mountain we yet conquer,
every stone we over-turn
earns us scars and earns us badges,
every dart and all our baggage,
it is not too much to manage if we only listen true:

There is hope yet in the world still
and love when others have not e’en a morsel,
how to be so self-ensorceled and only see what’s brute,
if you’d see yourself astutely, and not think yourself minutely,
which is your sacred duty, and the only thing that’s true:

“Love your neighbor as you love yourself,”
gives you the dharma to love yourself!
And whatever’s on your shelf there is always this to think –
“I love myself.”

T’is neither selfish nor narcissitic,
because if you cannot stand yourself
why should others think your company distinguished?

And for all the damage that I’ve done, beating up this heart of mine,
With just a brief self-assurance I find I’m fine,
Sublime, in the love that is Self-Given,
a spark set within Myself pinpointed through a prism.

Protected: Public Transit – NaPoWriMo #16

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Art

Art bleeding out the pores,
The pains and joys that it’s expressing, flowing from out the core,
The wholly stock and store of a soul shaking itself from slumber,
Seeking in it a lesson to offer umbrage instead of lumber.

A stage set in its components, wood and screws and paint to sway perceptions of what would otherwise be malaise and restraints,
Seeking to stake a claim in saints and statesmen, a sinner or a psychopath sincerely, to make a statement:

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Take to Find

I want to tell you everything I know about myself and so expose when the moon hangs low,
Growing nearer as the stars glow gallantly in comparison to the brightness in your eyes when I have you in my orisons.

Core untrimmed, contents revealed:
I’ve known loves that dropped like out of the sky,
Didn’t pull my chute out of fright and plummeted instead to the ground,
Ended it with the clack that resounded extra loud.

Clack! Rounds rebounded, stored and stacked,
Some might say he’s slack in the stack stored upon his back,
Boasts a knack at knocking words together,
To turn them toward some poetry,
When the fact he’s writing poetry should yet fill her with some worry, see?

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Hissing Pen

Which came first, the ova or the hen?
Where’s the leak?
Coming out this hissing pen that often gauges straight until put upon the page.

What’s its wage?
What week’s pay might you part with,
Straight dismiss, without profit seen for loftiness,
Baudy bliss in a crimson kiss that twisted past all reason and supplanted ethereality in the mist that hangs this season?

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