Beneath my chest is a fast river, its anger a foamy web constantly tearing inside itself. Inside my heart are pine trees bristling unison, the sound of locusts, thousands of sharp needles push a dark green against the baby blue sky. A lost neighborhood rests at the bottom of my stomach and impoverished, neglected, homes stacked one upon another, are alight in dusty fires like burning books.
I am journeying daily through these lands searching for a calm.
The cellos are smashed, the people are paralyzed, and the stink of certainty is cement upon the minds of children. All has been used. All has been left. Only the lowliest and craftiest con-artists collect taxes, wielding the promise of relative gain, exclusive membership, and protection from the poor.
As I only know how: with one hand I grasp the gasping river and drink the electric blue, with another I hold fistfuls of proud pine and chew on the fresh green firecrackers, I exhale these in the form of words, and from the obscurity of poverty shine other voices like eyes desperate and determined, hungry.
who will give me a home to rest in? I sometimes feel i am a migrant of silence, speaking steps unseen.
I walk on in search of a calm. But first, there is violence.
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