–
value is not
a number
or a stock market
value is a body
a mess. matters only
when broken flesh is pressed
together in the name of
trying. what is still valuable
in a world that made land
a funeral home and pulled
out all the Indigenous people
out of their peace to remind them
they can't even have their own
death. where is winning in
gentrified souls. Black people are
dying as fast as each cortado shot is
pulled. we call it a myth. even
anti-racism is trendy
now.
–
what you cannot sell us: tea made by mommy thumbs. a rove of belonging. tragedy. a
citrus skinned body. a family translucent from borders. a grief given by earth’s amygdala.
grief but sure whose, though. maybe a dead gay granny you never met. or your 3 year old marble
cheek self. or a curvature the gun made. carved by a government we trust. a
freedom pieced together by hands bonded n blistered meta-bumped it burns
–
if i could see my white settler colonial steal lineage
i would send them a doodle to organize
a workshop. start w a grounding
exercise so they could feel their calluses and cry
whatever prolonged weather they have been holding
onto. shame, isn’t it bb? we would read Lee Maracle and Frantz
Fanon and they wouldn’t leave the workshop
until they pooled their money and anecdotal secrets about
everything they stole and then we would touch the wound
that made their whiteness torch the world like that and we would
eat seasoned food and close by chanting
OWNERSHIP WILL
NOT FILL ME
–
when the market dies
i will piss all over your usb sticks
and bitcoin accounts and data dicks
and stocks and whatever other things you
download money on
and we’ll just
cry,
ok?
