In the Year of Permutations

Go live with yourself after what you didn’t do.

Go and be left behind. Pre-package

                              your defense, tell yourself

                                                      you were doing

             your oath, guarding the futility of

            

                   your corrupted good,

              discerning the currency of some.

                                   As if them over all else.

                                         Over us.

                                    Above God and Spirit.

                                        

                          You over me, you think.

This is no shelter in justice not sheltering with

enclosure of soft iron a sheltering of injustices

into an inferno flooding of your crimes committed

and sheltered by most culprit of them all.

                      These nesting days come

outward springs of truth,

                    dismantle the old structures,

their impulse for colony—I am done

                                                    with it, the likes of you.

To perpetrate.

To perpetrate lack of closure, smolders of unrest.

To perpetrate long days alone, centuries gone deprived.

                             To be complicit in adding to the

                   perpetration of power on a neck,

                            there and shamed,

                             court of ancestors to disgrace

              you, seeing and to have done nothing.

Think you can be like them.

Work like them.

Talk like them.

Never truly to be accepted,

                                            always a pawn.