Spit the block from between the teeth
and say it:
no more block.
No more cloth to sop up wet words.
Say it: no more restraint.
No more binding of the tongue.
Spit out what has caused silence saying:
end it. End
living in this moment
and no other moment. End
the denial of potential.
End forgetfulness, end
lockdown of past
that’s traveled this same ground
and discovered what is now thought new.
End
irony. End
sad romantic glow
and false inclusion
around petty blues.
End class disdain.
End feeding of the demons
that breed in racial memory and suspicion
and their domination of the better angels of particularity
and unique experience.
End
fear of difference.
End selective love and listening.
End confusion between
the naturally separated
speaker and words.
End careful
point choice, end the perfection
of the figures traced between
chosen points.
End fire set to voice
and water poured on craft.
End deliberate pouncing upon
every simple inconsistency
that is the hallmark
of humanity.
End the reliance on love
to stop all bullets. End
the invocation of love
as a blind for the killer.
End the exhortations of
hating game and not player
as if they are ever seen as separate.
End
how the self imagines
itself as only hero, not
villain, not bit player,
not bystander, not ignorant
complicit agent, not
collaborator at the same time.
End in this:
the naked, the skinless,
the wet muscles pressed nerve to nerve
in pain and necessary contact.
End in this:
contact. Blood clotting
as if in love with other blood.
End
with this last closing of gaps
and pray for no regeneration
of the previous ease with how
distance can be sanctioned and welcomed
in the service of clustered living
among those who see only each other
as worthy of the touch.
End the need
of the disregarded
to spit out and discard the gags
transferred to their living mouths
by the hands of the favored.
Spit the block into their hands.
Let them marvel at how moist
it has always been.
Dark Matter 