You Think We are Not Tall Enough to See

We who are multiples create a theorem of expression, a soft articulation of voices. We claim space(s) and surround our intentions with the brisk flattery of political agitation. We rub against skin and taint the status quo. We wish to inform that yours is not the way. Instead, signs point to every direction. Softness multiplies. We calculate and create in bold colors, using a thesaurus of words, dictionary of language as power.

You who shatter into discord and genital conflagration, you have embodied a misconception. You who blaspheme and blather spit nonsense out of your ass. Or was it only love, as you say, a passion of value and concern. Noted. And in turn I tell you, take your signs and helpful pamphlets and shove them in your ears so you can’t hear what we say next, for your own safety and moral boundaries. You will be (a)shamed.

We who throw sticks, eat stones, and feel like walls cluttered with roses, painted, peeling, the repetition of waving and loss. We eat our stones regardless of your nonsense and beliefs. We have beliefs which involve choosing and respect. Choosing how one conducts oneself. We are not asking for your advice or assistance. Stay out of my fucking choice. Stay out of our minority status as your excuse for disheveled corruption, blatant violence.

What we mean is that wealth accumulates like limbs, slick and slippery. We believe in the erosion of the monotonous, that is to say, history as it repeats in ignorance. We read history. We use new words to write history and present. We believe in Frederick Douglass, starting with the letter “a” working toward “z” and using the word intellect, the word embolden, the many words for empowered. We are multiplied by too many fingers to count.

This is to say that meaning resides at the edge of the city. On the edges which is really the main event. The majority of everything. The world’s population. The biggest percent. The biggest loser(s). Some of us still have more to lose. All of us want to give some of it back. We are done giving it to you. We accumulate, we brush and stroke this emergency of correspondence, we ride this tidal wave of concrete sentiment. Head out.