The Two Percent
Sadistic sociopath Streets and alleys bleed across my adopted country The Black man can't breathe Centuries of slavery make the blood runbouncing over jagged rocks I feel its legacy in every Black pulse people now assumed free The rough run of fluid in veins traumatized for generations My Appalachian heart distilled in the North country, running from the violence nurtured on Assassin's Hill A successful white immigrant brought down by comorbidities of profound injury My pulse is choppy too, the imprint of torture and murder resonating in the flow One American son moving corporate mountains to heal the heritage of Satanists and Nazis The other hand in hand with his love, where I could not be, wearing a gas mask, shot by rubber bullets, no lost eyes Left his gun at home and walked peacefully through the hemorrhaging streets because he is a patriot without a leader these long years I live without sleep I am the granddaughter of this man riveted by the face of suffering increasing and decreasing pressure alternately on MY neck, watching life fade in and out until the policeman, his brotherhood's two percent, was ready to end the game and see us ALL die Crying to his mother waiting on the other side Adieu to children here A torturer's focused face A limp body Family terrified into complacency - Celia Quinn
4 replies on “The Two Percent”
It is wonderful to see you posting again. I missed your voice, your spirit, and your expressive.
Welcome back; I look forward to more.
On Mon, Jun 29, 2020 at 8:58 AM celiadermontblog wrote:
> Celia Quinn posted: ” Photo by ksh2000 on Pexels.com Sadistic sociopath > Streets and alleys bleed across my adopted country The Black man can’t > breathe Centuries of slavery make the blood run bouncing over jagged rocks > I feel its legacy in every Black pulse people now assu” >
I have much more.
I am happy you are still there to receive!
Much changed and even better.
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