The smoke is normal. Crashing into
the walls of a burning house has
become common place, a routine
I repeat almost daily. Graying hair
symbolizes the time I have committed
to inhaling metallic culture. A tightrope
is home. Stealthily balancing weight
on an eyelash. Master the grind. Master
the hustle. Master the way sunlight
bounces into a black Nissan Xterra,
doing 80 in the HOV lane, Alexandria
to Chesapeake. Greg keeps the rhythm,
like an urban griot, sensing the pulsing
heartbeats of chipped history, a scarred
tomorrow. The smoke is normal. The
smoke eats enough to grow by the second,
belches, and continues to consume.
I find a lane in the polluted mainframe
of the experience, listening to Rage
or Chuck D or Rakim or KRS One give
instructions on how to breathe. Breathe
after my own fashion, engineering
the present because I ain’t got no manners.
No home training. No respectability
politics to worry about. The smoke is
normal. I am not. The smoke is normal.
I am not. The smoke is normal, normal,
normal. The smoke is normal, normal,
normal. I am not. I am not America’s
cliche, or its child running away from
fight, from light, from flight, from the
state sanctioned violence of ICE.
Everything is a visage, a jungle steadily
evolving–a tapestry of Empire.
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