The first day of western illness, the morning was reluctant. A baby was born where the ancient ocean could hear it first-cry, the pale sea curled into an ear lobe then died, its barely blue cartilage skin, ship-route sliced. The new father read the horizon for a name and stuttered scholarly for the word, for the white—for the term. Legend says it was a finned wooden beast that puked a virus onto original soil. They called us red and naive. Always, I admire the coolness of new-earth’s renaissance with its sexy smirk and functional drug addiction. The truth is I’m not courageous enough to be an American. I am scared to be among those who’s heart will go last. I’ll take the anti-reality, twitter tea, plastic teeth, time-vaccine today to right-team or left-team like a sports-fan where the players are all me and you and our parents and our schizophrenic cousins. I sit here to write about my father whose father’s father died sitting in a chair crying for the land that he didn’t know was his until it was taken from him and I want it back with a rage that I don’t have to pledge allegiance for I was bred in a war that grants not even a helmet. I know how to die. And I know how to do it over and over again. They took away our god-handles and now we scan the mountains and it’s scars of old tides desperate to know what the old-world called us before it called us alien, before it broke our noses, before it tortured our parents and made us watch. The mad-at-daddy segun rebels were latter to the green eyed serpents that rape-bred generations inspiring conference-room type graphs, subject, pretty word : mestizos. Still, let’s forget about that past, here I’ll join. Today is the death of an empire, and I’m naming myself after the future.

August 2, 2018

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