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

dead

DEVELOPMENT

DEVELOPMENT

DEVELOPMENT

He cries

Come one

Cum all

To Free Market

Circus

Where all your dreams will come

True

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)

Nevermind

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

Look

At what you have

Wrought

Upon yourself

Nothing

But a putrid emaciated corpse

Croaking feebly

“I hunger.”

&

Those fancy ass houses

with windows turned

Inward

Are

nothing

but

Tombs

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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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