It is hard to pick a side in someone’s conflict, but it is harder doing nothing. To the Texans, a specific group was selected from a group’s overall identity. There, contrast between Portugese and Spanish king, the Dutch traders and those choosing representation by Treaty of Tordesillas. The Czechoslovakian serfs, and the Irish whose German is bad about talking, blacksmithing for the stables that were for the English riders. The French who fought the Spanish moderates opinion, of which fact their native people’s tongue explicitly are sullen. Here are the unsided, are defensible dreamers questing to create a new heritage. The men spoke little about their heritage, implicitly because back home they wil be mortal enemies. More for gallantry, they have yet found another way. Set out to see past history would be great; but, to speak freely about the conduct of business, to discover is not what has realized the pigments in their skin.
As fate would have it, calm pressed for just judication, are the penal colonies. The ruin of upkeep was coming of squalor. The sky’s fury has rolled in, along with thunder-striking cloud cover. The workers envisioned settling. Settlers, although, one day they will not. A black sky brought much worse! Both the fury of the calm, reconciliation, and the work in the mud would be done with remorse. A very small vanity will pass, if the humid tension is not broken. A silence is breeding by tension. Strengthening the will of dissent, and their master’s will; and, their animal’s will resembles the ruin approaching fast! It has left behind a destruction described to society as progress, like raging warlords struck by fairytale peace.
Both indicative of a king’s seal, and confederated in their numbers they harvenged from fragments their wants and personability. To farm from the same farm, and will become the needed permission to later settle the Dust Bowl without this approach of storm. Those who will choose to accept, that if what comes next is not a dragon’s flame, then learning a thing different will be, moving. Everyone else wanted to dig their own hole in the dirt. Military peace, a dream search. Not peace between the militaries like American politicians sought; but, peace was brought with perseverance that international trial would fold in on. They watched, conflicts not go below the squire. Their scholar’s evolution and intentions for hierarchy, learning half-heartedly like those knights whom served crusade and returned the gentiles dialog that sounded sure of its defeat. They are the treasures of a Queen’s ships, sailing home from delusion, confusion and the loss of a king’s rite. Awaiting the story from conquest, but there again they are met with the noble reinforcements and papal bulls. Of course with time, being peaceable about death is not facing a maker, and settling those debts are never without bloodshed. A will, let said, a Queen will be more than of another side from the collection of knights dead.
The story is well known. Having their hand at what plague has set in, the setting is a past, and its present is staging the beast’s thrashing, throwing white ink from pen. The flit, the flitter candle light, and the lightening light from writing, both presume the story had died. A new fiction was born, and in its defense against the shouting matches, new threats have risen from their strike. Turning against the stings of whips, of masters and their open ended threats, all made by the color of the man. Like a brazen line forgotten, a line seen stretching from the well, with women who carried their water atop their heads like a hat for its vessel. The unbroken chain, realize what it is there for. Peril, for both the motivation and logic behind having no reason; and, the antagonized sudden and directed calm coming. Wild work, explicatives and swearing, wearing away against rubbed off skin. A unique inversion of chain, shackle and wide open eyes like fighting from within, to be without.
“Death, is a release for slavery,” one of the serf argued. He has yet realized that he has not accepted the gift that freedom is, in that take from recklessness in consumable firestorm and blood shed. Digesting some tyranny changes you, but tyranny was yet to end. They realized how their brothers spoke the same, yet traveled a different direction.
“There is no release from slavery. Only further captive… Slavery is a state of mind,” said the other whom was being argued with. The work of pillaging their village and its richer tennants was its vengeance. On its grant marks no gift that was to come as reminder, but as painful memory of clean slate. Criminals build these concrete statues of generals, but did not go to fight against civil injustice. It had been settled. When a man cries he is called a hero, and when it is a woman it is called domestic violence. The debt to society was continually undone with revenge! Plying at the creaky floorboards of cabins in the West, and returning home Yank gold. It was hard to argue, that an opinion is within you because inside of you there has been realized a convoluted treatise on nature that dream states come in constant success. Finding your outlaw justice in an open noose loop were the purgatory of these dreaming which one day set sail, returning back to England. Loyalism and loyalist alike, those not responsible for your hurting! You know it was them who spawned the calm, but then their stories you chose not to share. Brought upon you, in a haste of deliverance, all at once is this idea. Ideas can be broken, not traditions nor laws. The fiction is itself reasonable in inspiring further radicalism in the dying fire of vigilantism.
When the destiny and the fate met, it was indeed explosive! A highly volatile situation which has unforeseen consequences. A sacked town. A rubble that would be trading gold for your silver. Sharing in this aftermath for rebuilding, an awesome hand changes from what has caused this cease fire to turn a realm for deliverance. The two in argument realize that it is you who has to acknowledge the kin will of fleet which grows again, a perspective of having control or power. “Have to save you some of the gold,” the first lamented. Picking their master’s estate was not necessarily looting. If they had gone through his town looking for fire water and dusty bottles of liquor; it would been the addition to this magical moment that ceases the panic of lesser, cowardly men. They turn to taxation with one hand in the governmental stewardship and they listen to what is growing inside. Paying for their entertainment with bank loans, the crowd enshrines the perfected destruction as if had been confronted by God. Everyone else had sent for, but been stabbed in the back, and had their necks slit by their wives in the dead of night.
“Yea. Pass it down to my children,” begs the coward from the first who spoke among the ruins, looking for acceptance. “Just don’t tell them where it came from, though. Right?” They both laughed together. The coward had stopped scouring for only a second, to waste what was left of lit denial, a warmed lamp oil like lightening that had greyed its illumination of the surrounded hate. It encouraged further involvement like a wisdom of ancient past. Staring through others’ eyes, through the back of the head, where a bullet could go. There fought against their courage for further disobedience, a pestilence that makes vague the righting wrongs. You hear the cinders, crackle… hear the rubble that is still burning… hear the wind… hear their feet in the debris… He hears his heart, unsettled, try to catch up. Hearing the cool, calm of collecting hope.
Importing California pecans and Georgian peaches, years later the Texas grapevines press wines from the lands. Still, the inside jokes and laughter seem better than riding a horse you broke, much less the horse sees fit your handy work. The music is louder in the capital, the loudest it has ever been. It attracts attention. The people of the city seem to like the attention, and don’t mind delving into the broadcast that comes like waves. They are Lucretian tercets from England, the sending out of Lucretian sonnets detailing the Massacre of Saint Bartholomew’s Eve. “Of course, they understand the logic of sending more tea and tobacco, but sea water and tobacco don’t mix well,” they laugh. Presenting themselves with the inquiry, to its arguments and regarded stances for their soldiers to take bullets. Their general, hero stands erected for protection, stone cold like salt pillar, and without the conjoined laughter. They are filling with questions why someone would say that, to General Lee’s tearless face, someone is beating the dead horse like a war drum and they use other words like [bastardo] and [insolencia] for describing each other back in Europa. Here, they have assistance, and lean back in pain to resist the cavities developed in the pink gum, thickened everytime they grayed. The rocking chair does not lean back, on its own, forward again and without return to Native American land claims, that on paper make sense.
Returning to the West’s soils [el maiz], they hear reminders and call the Omens proof. They hear their surnames and conspire. A conspiracy, the theory, they did not understand each other. The morphine of apathy takes hold like novacane. Death grips of poisons and toxins, the sunshine and soft bird songs after rain, soothe the pain of time passing lonely. The waves of tercets approaching, the voices change again and their faces are facing the sun rising East. Long faced horses respond the same as the curious cow, inspired to look in on cowboys and cowgirls whose parents were raised in a wagon circle. The ring for training and resistance. Training the understanding. Acting in place of justice, blinded by conflicts and transferred back through the gold bars that against silver trades from sounded dynamite blasts or bullet reports. Here, the black dirt grows cedar. Their fire, when they burn, it is hot as the crucible. The new waves of firebugs and hawk eyes roll across the land.
Here, the cedars shine red, dripping sun from their green nettle. They bleed the summer sugars that in winter will ignite, and their pollen on dusty bottles of rum ruin the imports from smuggler’s island, the wine. The horse trade is in the tracks, after being tested are the Carolina ladies. Fearful, they are Alabama jamma’s daddy and the leader of the Ku Klux Klan. They wore burnt orange jerseys, separate from the fish hooks, from the crane legs and spread wings across the Ozarks which changed by the seasons. Soon, the gray will be kidnapped in a cinematic repression of onslaughts from advertising. The silenced press will be shocked and awed, by the dropping of boundaries like flood gates. Then, Omens will be washed away like rock candy from New Mexico cavern walls, diamonds stripped from sand. Times of sand, they have settled in the hour glass; and, when it is flipped, now tornadic activity twists like the eyes of Crazy Horse pouring down form the Black Hills of South Dakota.
A statesman cracks his first track towards “one hundred to make turkey”, his article entitled, “Best Eats of These United States”. Or, was it bowling for soup? Gold digging? They are settling in her pockets, into waiting, into conflicts and entangled alliances. The cheese all gets exported and the slums jam, make music and scrawl poetry on walls like graffiti. The ghettos create a music that forces the breath, and moments of peace. They say it is not the same, a man defending his country. Around the cannons and monuments of general’s wars, they aline theirselves and see the defense of the battlements and ramparts where they planted a flag. Together, they find a resolution to articulate because they did it together. The cowering in the gutters, and limelit darkness, preaches to the light of self-defense. Calling together to regroup around confederacy and the right to respond, they echo the gray and trace from the theater as taxis speed by. The magic of morning makes the work easy.
Prowling around the cafes and coco harvested from the South’s indemnity to the North, the servants reply, “[Yo quiero, ver. Hicisteis con gusto no solo, sin circa idioma; tiempo no temer.]” Numbering the days since the last attack; the white house burning, Pearl Harbor and the Saudi marketer’s son who left for jihad… like Gettysburg Address. The Hindenburg history lesson wreaks from above baseball games or above ‘R.I.P. Dale Earhart’ above NASCAR races, the Goodyear name painted along its side, smelling like burning chemical fires. R&D, S&P markets broadcast an insurance bubble, and the collapse echoes what CB radio operators are called a trucker’s union. In the unison, like from a roaring American football stadium, the marriage of Haitian, Puerto Rican and Portuguese women are screaming like the pope was on the field. Out comes the new Patriarchy of Occidental cultures on horseback, riding one behind the other and looking at the crumbling infrastructure. Then comes fighting back against tears, years of prayers and tears they wish their husbands would make a reality.
From the war investments, from the kitchen of a new age battleship, the song comes on; and, a favoriate writer tells inside jokes to their union members through fake news. School classroom’s explicatives leak in and ignite the cure for cancer to go down in a wall of gunfire, after murdering a hallway full of its peers. Inez de la Cruz’s body is stretched out next to Richard’s body, and again the silence comes from comparing measures to build walls higher. The theatrics changed, and the language did not transfer into the state’s language, agree with the gray line again yellowed by the tinge of a king’s crown. Again, they are left guessing weather to tell that the cardinals whom papal bulls are preached on conspiracy, not sinning by taking young girls’ virginity below a glass ceiling for acting to perpetuate bad breaks on bread for enemies. The response comes too late, the intelligence was never trained. Understanding the distortion takes toll, and its time of test is a youthful spring for baptism like the glow from the volcanic activity on Hawaii.
“Faster,” the jockey screams at his horse. Behind the leader, the leader hears the call for more speed and notes he has won. He feels the need for a vest, like the feeling affraid of the assassination of the press with a twenty-two, instead of their censorship. They agreed, that if he lose, he not give up vetting. A disposal of pride and a weakening disposition, to the animals that seem to understand better than to get ridden. Ridden with the years of newspapers that feed off of investments. Their investors coming to the warehouse to complain about a lack of steel toed boots, and then sneak peeks at the upper crust which publishes to pay off cable bills. Peers chained to peer, beneath the foot of multiple war bills and the return of correct representation, the investments that pay the most are the reading of their papers. Stocks soar each time a medication to pardon an injury on an uninsured future union member is talked about in the warehouse, and the joke shows up in the names for the medications or its medicators… incidence about steel toed boot workers without insurance.
It costs more to publish medication’s advertising in magazines, so the television plays the same dog and pony show that happens in the warehouse. The publishers pay off the cable bills, but have been double parked for weeks, cabbies parked to complain. Across the street, the ideas for how to advertise above the license plates are spawned like grief from having the entire ghetto’s power turned off because the bill was not paid. After losing their jobs, the warehouse burns down that was making t-shirts to send to Taiwan and Honduras. After investing in medicating, escaping and acting frail ensues a respect for elders; and, as an excuse, shines disrespect on those willing to follow the money trail. The cursed gold of Pizan again a myth, and the legend of a celtic monk again a friar praying for the wife beaters and gambling junkies who gambled their children’s education in a stock bubble. The song square dances, playing taps on graves of those pronounced dead just before graduation, to form the six point star of seal, much stronger then the belligerent acts of the five pointed star of knight’s and their inherent devil magic.
There was a car accident. The firefighters, police and emergency medical personal quickly arrive, yet they realize the politician in the car has been cutting their pensions and they were all going to be terminated the next week when the government shuts down. A propaganda hungry, junkie for adrenaline reporter shows up to feed off the engergy because back at the office, the investor’s wife has returned to accompany him to their news room. On the way to the bank, he was to explain for her how the news outlet was assuredly to close. He was moving back to Texas, to live off his plantation and racketeer for California gold diggers to be among the Texas Railroading Comission. He was having animals shipped from the East coast to take tax cuts on agriculture and aggregate his version of the insurance bubble, how it should be televised and sensationalized. How to invest in the reporting and advertisement tactic among universities, he already made that in, in production of the fake news that trained the students who had survived all the school shootings.
When the propaganda starts, listen… It is hard to see that you work for a politician’s friends. Once called the Virginians, whom the Bostonians realized were in charge. The friend is saying the same spin, but what you are saying, no one listened and nothing took affect. The drugs in the ghettos are of course to blame, while the flood of bullets that rain from the sky in Middle Eastern marriages seem to hit people in the Americas. The blacks sign up for the military, so the generals can retire. The grotto floods wines while the stench of used up cactus floods the church, a raisin in the sun. The smokey fronts of bars do indeed look like used car lots. It is only because they graduated to sailing, turning in their college gifts from their parents, from the cars to scientific expedition. The cloak of the dagger hides in pyramid scams and phone calls from religious institutions that no-longer door-to-door. The sin in self-flagellation is compared to self-medicating, and the investments in violence for video games among political regulatory committee begins paying off.
Images stream in, the publisher stops his reporters, “I have a sad announcement to give you. Unfortunately, next month we will no longer be producing our publication. There is not going to be any serverance pay, but for the next month you have to still come to work to get pay. Anyone that does not come into work, it will be considered theft.”
The day before the publication will close, a new job website appears on the screen of a reporter’s from the publication. “A new job search engine,” he acts as if he is in understanding what is being read. It sounds like what the voice of the organization who currently employed him reads as, but built for a new platform and spelt out in a reaffirmed affirmative language. “That is a lot of colored people, in that photograph,” he comments. He scoffs, cheekily.
“What is that? Is that company property,” asks the interim editor brought in for the private last month of operations. He was curious to see the differnt types of run off was coming through the pipeline.
“I did not want to get a bad reference…,” he begins to explain to his wife later in the night which followed. The reporter had noticed some references to the works that they had done at the publication of the years. He was, after all, going tonight to celebrate his career working in the privitized sector of mass communications. “It is cut throat. It was cut throat…,” he continues to keep her silenced so he does not continue to violate any future privacy contracts that he did not know he had signed. She had been complaining because her life as a house wife was coming to a socializing end, the chaos an ending on a long term of privacy to find work she had to drive across state lines to go to work. Apparently, finding a job was easier than she thought it was going to be.
“From who,” she did ask, searching for possible threats that breach the commitments of founding a legal contract. Finally putting down her phone with the person still on the other end, “You have work to do here, now that you are retired, you can help with me around the house.”
For his retirement party, they went out to a jazz club. A black was telling jokes on the stage. There was no music that night. “So, this is a jazz club, but you guys have no jazz artists?”
“Well, we went to war with ourselves, and found out we were already at war with ourselves,” said the comedian to a dead crowd. The line was stale, and the soured crowd almost booed.
“Across the street, there was a show, tonight. They may have jazz for you there,” said the owner, to the couple. They had already left a tip in a jug to some mariachis for playing on a corner, and they wanted to hear the jazz from Harlem in their local club social hour, tonight. Escaping the storm that had brewed in the closing publication’s wake, they were avoiding the places where they had dropped bombshells that never were published, or were published in a different language to avoid actually talking about issues. The resraurants had favoriated the couple’s abilities of turning a conversation into being about themselves, instead of making more clutter… propaganda. Listen! They liked how they never had to babysit the noise. Now, the restaurants would have to watch prospectors roll out real conflicts in their stead to replace the lack of propaganda. Prospectors who had read their favoriate reporter fight through the years of change. Wishing the same change, from entertainment to luxury. They had to gamble on the luck of marriage. It was the only way to know where to go, after being blinded by years of vetting change they never seemed to be apart of. The ghettos were built for people to live in them though, so there was no reason to leave tip. The gratuities come out in taxes on their retirements and pay for government finance, and build more ghettos on top of the ashes where a plantation once was burnt to the ground by its white slaves. Now, in a gated community of latinos, the new barrio rains down its propaganda leaflets from a space shuttle sent to repair satellites, calling workers North who were willing to do work that was not proper; from a space shuttle flying over southern continents, broadcasting free cable to anyone with a cable dish, and, above the wells that were built in Africa. On the back it had been translated into Swahili.
From the ashes of the Phoenix, they recognize the flames that once burned through the love that distorted any connection made of its community’s. Soaring high. Looking for some bondage for that community that had been distracted from making community, communal. Popularizing the words of the politician’s friend, who spoke of the shadows. He was down at the ladders’ bottoms where the soil no longer was able to sustain growth, and the latter half of our species had died off. The cowards and the gangseters had all circled up, hand-in-hand in a ball of light had been teleported to Uranus. The sea like qualities of the darkness had raged into a paradise like substance that was able to be walked across, like the Red Sea. When these qualities of the sky turning red were within the wings of the Phoenix, a ball of dirt fell from the sky and sprouted legs like a turtle. We can tell it is not pegasus nor Gabriel’s horn. The indians called it an ‘Earth Engine’. They recognized it from an older movie called ‘Superman’ that the Dutch had imported through the middle east in the 21st century. It had come by camelback.
The better half of being was encapsulated in the politician’s friend’s wife, catching up with the reporter couple. She had been the daughter of the president of France, and did now know any better about what was news and what was pagan propaganda. After they were divorced, she moored at an all-lesbian halfway house, and secretly stripped for a local club. This all before she had met her husband, the reporter. The back story about his wife never entertained the restaurants, forcing up a want to regurgitate your meal. “We should run a short story I wrote about ‘Persephone the Grey’ who dances in an exotic club, fiction of course,” he had said to the politician, really the editor. The night he first saw her dance at the strip club, he had continued the exchange because he thought the editor did not hear the first remark, “… or, we could try running ‘Jacob’s Ladder and the Tendril’, BAPTISM BY FIRE!” He was trying to sound exciting. From behind a television, what they wished was watching the mattresses rain from advertising following news broadcast cabled in from the satellite dish. The news broadcast was yet another revolution being televised from Greece angering white folks into participating. They had finally perfected their poison.
In the back room of the bank, the investor opened his briefcase that carried gold bars. The cursed look on his face told the fictional peice of the tale really. “Where’d ya’ git it,” he inspected the gold.
“Whaling,” he lied. “Japan.”
“So,” asked a son of his father, “…was this the investor’s fault,” the son asked his dad, “…or, the tax collectors?” The son was referencing something he heard in church.
His black face turned kind of white. Without taking a break to turn the page of his fairytale book, he began explaining African slavery; and, it was different to hire blacks to work in his warehouse. He tried to exercise the work of the devil, fictional literature had been during the Alexandrian book fires. He struggled to compare where the communication he and his son was failing, trying not to lie about his religious practices nor obligations to his community. He focused on the animals, that now lived in zoos, and made an attempt at explaining the advantages of people coming towards laughter, rather the attraction of safari, or worse. The comparison of paying taxes to fund the zoo made sense to the father. The child looked confused at how Pharoah would murder his own son over white slaves leaving Egypt, but not be willing to pay to build his tomb. “Well, when Pharoah does not pay his taxes, the plague comes,” he slipped up.
“The end. Go brush your teeth,” the boy’s mother said from the open door where she had leaned against.
“Better than those Christmas decorations,” said the serf to his English master, who was just dropped off by carriage, somewhere in England. Across the way, someone had hung all their black slaves for witchcraft, from their trees. Master had just got home from court, serving to the community by trying a man whom murdered his wife because she was practicing Mongolian witchcraft, ignoring the conspiracy of charging her for practicing eastern European Catholicism.
And, in an empty classroom, a professor has leaned back against their desk like an editor getting the scoop. “Necromancy,” the student explained. “The miscommunication of the bible and its text is the evolution of fiction.” He was fighting with his ethics professor about his right to compare Peter to the king of England in his economics and market finance paper. “It is like,” he continued, “the lessons from Anthony and Cleopatra, Phira and Thisbe.”
“Is there anything you can do,” the Danish woman cried at her husband, “to get him to stop hailing Hitler from the grave.” She knew he was making parody, but it sounds ignorant.
“It is just a joke,” he tried to explain to her. “Come on. You know he is not a socialist. He is just trying to be scary!” He knows why Clymenstra commits suicide and will see the light when the moment is right.
“It is scary. That, everytime I come home from work, I walk in through the door and hear cries to the dead. Much less, trying to raise an infamous warlord who stunned the communities of this world with such atrocity.”
“WHERE ARE THOU ROMEO,” the boy was now hollaring from the tops of his lungs, from across the house.
“So, This is my fault?!” The father screams back.
“Yes! You, idiot, ignoramus, ninken poo,” she yelled back. “He’s your son, and I know he did not learn about how Hitler’s mother died! Why don’t YOU go and tell that to him,” she finished the screaming match.
“Well, maybe if Hitler comes back from the dead,” he replied, “then we can find out for ourselves.”
“Yea,” she replied, “mayy-beeee.”
Few could hear over the scream, now. The fire is dying down. The shock and awe that is inspired by the impression from hearing where slavery began, had just been delivered like a bombshell speech from a future president, in a collegiate classroom. They had been studying argumentative deliveries, because their path to citizenship had been blocked in order to educate on society. They had closed all their borders; to all races, sexes, and colors of skin. The screams were ghost like. Silent approval that they had learned, something. The plantations were actually on fire, burning their inhabitants alive, not the grapevines. There would be no reports written on slavery, as the cause of racism, or socialism as the cause for white power for that matter. Only, how many people had not learned to correctly use a gun, or how the hospital systems were not doing enough to educate people on suicide.
As the fires die down and subside, it would be for the media to decide. The colesium is inferior. Listening to a roaring crowd is as listening to a roaring fire. Hearing racism’s silent plague race in at the void, where limbo had thrown a society into a spinning black nebula was supposed to revive some dead Confederate hero from his grave. Where was his wife? A power vaccum, where its opening sucks in the responses that fall on deaf ears to the helpless, and the hopeless look on at a distance to what they swear was a dragon terrorizing an entire kingdom from the sky. The hurtless fiction of disagreeing that the general fight was a fight for the sense of fighting over what is to be man, that Mexican indians had used to reason beheading people at the top of sacred pyramids as a religion.
Dusty bottles. Listen. “Are they empty?” A wedding convoy is approaching. We should serve them what is behind, and under that cabinet. It looks like glass in the foreground. I see the landscape behind me, and feeling it changing within me, the dirt below me — like a sun. Black, brown, orange, gray. The colors of death are frightening, sort of enlightening. As love’s color has gone away, I think I like listening as they pick at scraps like eagles. I like the sunburnt beauty that becomes separation and equality of hardened fist fighting against what wrongs make right. More importantly, it makes more sense to respond, because just outside of the darkness was a prevailing light. It has shone through what I might have found to being the indifference. I did not know that light makes a sound, onlye when it is white. The rhythm changes, slows, and speed up. Everytime it does, I listen.
I did come looking for a fight and found it, friend. The same fighting vaqueros found out was all along that reason behind my need to retreat and defend. With light at my back, I wonder, “did I ever, know the difference between blessing and being blessed?” My chin was leaning on the spine of a piece of fiction. It was the inspiring tale about a plantation being burned to the ground in the name of love. I would get another chance to speak. I could hear the dead carcass of my past being picked through, like hobos gathering around The Maypole of Merry Mount. A few thoughts on trying to be inspiring. I thought about growing up on day, but had decided it would not be cost efficient. Thinking what made it easier created hesitation before raising my chin. I worked the will of Pharoah before. Cannonage, becoming a god. Remebering Jesus. Like the blood in a hard row to hoe. Again caught looking down on myself. Then, I thought about when it was that I was most able to listen. Where was that, that the memory was the strongest? I was already lost, though; trying to figure out what it is I was reading. Probably the internet: a tale about black sheriffs in Jamaica, who worked for a local coke lord. Zidacos. The sheriffs were going door to door in the slums of Jamaica in search of the next prescient. Explaining that part is always the hardest, when I am asked to. I always hated it when someone tries to explain, to me, something that was hardest for me to understand.
The president does not own slaves, and I really want the truth or the answer. The confusion from explaining the situation, that they know we are all in; while, why it was to remember where I come from was the difference I make when the answer is the truth, or the truth becoming so entertaining was like an old western standoff. Standing in someone else’s ashes like a Phoenix.
When I was told that knowledge does not come from books, then why are we fighting over it?