Airplane Shit-Talk Ain’t Really Shit Talk

Fragmentary engagement,

the pen bleeds as if

the tongue were sliced open –

Black ink droplets spattered

upon a page of decolonial

au jus,

 

a patois created as the flight

slips from the tarmac:

the grip of the

tires is required…

but words don’t play by

the same rules.

 

“I wish this pen

had that ink; I wish

people realized the

same truths I hold”

 

yet Subjectivity

makes its home in us all;

The body is a thatched roof blown open

by the gusts of our hearts

& our caucus is a flock

of sparrows –

 

we are a murmuration

contrasted against a black

& blue horizon;

 

Our society is a bruise,

We are a bruise.

We cloak ourselves in black as we

embrace the sideways angle

of our page.

 

Our peers sit beside us;

We are one, voices sync’d

asses glued to the same row…

Vessels inside vessels, cells inside cells,

We are

the same caramel drizzle of consciousness

 

yet with each moment passed

there is an unspoken and audible

shuffling of the deck; the differance of dispositions

 

yet what irony!

Writing such statements

through a pen without ink.

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