Post the Ninety-First or Tombs

Fancy ass houses

Sprout up like weeds

Among the desiccated shells

Of homes past


The street corner is still

A battleground

Full of ill-forgotten





He cries

Come one

Cum all

To Free Market


Where all your dreams will come


Where the only person that matters

Is you

Where all your cares can be laid

To rest

(If you are white, rich and exploit the already exploited)


The broken communities

The displaced people

The alienation you feel in your soul

The Crier Cried

Are you tired of your

Perfectly manicured lawns

Your neighborhood associations

Your serene and “safe” home?

Why not

Spice it up!

By moving to this

Low-Income Neighborhood!

(The Natives call it the “Hood”)

For the low low price

Of fucked up racial dynamics

You too can be that edgy white dude

Or that free spirited hipster girl

You can be the face of post-racial Amerikkka!

And for a limited time we will throw in a Black FriendTM

To prove you aren’t

A racist!

(And if the Natives bother you just call the cops!)

Do you

Enjoy flaunting your wealth

In front of the folks

You stole it from?

Do you

Have a burning need

To assuage your guilt

By saving the black and brown children?

Than step right up

I dare you

Come closer

Take a hard


At what you have


Upon yourself


But a putrid emaciated corpse

Croaking feebly

“I hunger.”


Those fancy ass houses

with windows turned






About witchymorgan

I'm a 22 year old womanist, sex positive, pansexual, polyamorous, queer, bruja, transwoman. Social justice activist by day, social justice activist by night. Fun! View all posts by witchymorgan

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