Disclaimer!!!!
This is EASILY the most artistic thing I’ve ever written. If anyone has read Beloved by Toni Morrison the structure of this piece is mocking her works in her more…. creative chapters. This is NOT something I would normally write, but here it is! Interpret it as you see fit.
11.28.17
The ceiling fan was whirling above or heads. The sun was creeping in towards us from the opening that ends the concrete structure that we call home for these two months and we were starting to feel drowsy. The conversation bounced around our little gathering as we progressed from expressing the severity of our discomfort on the concrete floor in the humid heat of India to our most sincere gratefulness that we were laying on a concrete floor in the humid heat of India. Our hands grazed across grains of sand and black bugs as we readjusted on the cool floor. We could smell the cooking of the wonderful women that make traditional meals for us three times per day. Curry powders and garlic and onions decorated the air almost as liberally as colorful streamers decorate the ceilings of churches. Flowers drape across every doorway and statue alike and people saunter about in elaborate sarees as a normal factor of their “average” lives. Buffalo wear a log around their necks as a necklace, for not even live-stock is neglected from the decorative, extravagant culture. Beaming yellow tuk tuks race about sporting neon flags and large lettering on the windshield. More often than not, the shape of the tuk tuk is interrupted by limbs and whole people poking out, hoping to God that they aren’t hit by another zooming moto. On the rare occasion that one can actually see the innards of the tuk tuk, one can generally spot a poster or painting of a hindu god or another idolized figure, some even display famous leaders.
Smog rests in the lungs of our Indian friends… it twists and mangles the cleanliness of the city… the waste of all forms residing on streets and in crevices and in the hands of the homeless does the same…. She approaches and pats her stomach. Her hand extends…. It returns empty…. Hungry, broken, old…. Lost. She’s dirty homeless unseen by the unspoken system that perverts humanity. There’s something on her. There’s something on me
Another turn
Creek creek creek the ground is unloved . that cow is better treated than the dirty widow wearing torn rags, forced to beg for food on the street
Creek creek creek
it’s green two are bigger than one it’s rusted he’s young… he’s only eleven where are his legs
creek creek creek it’s green.
he’s twisted and crippled beyond any known definition . his toes are frayed the knees are facing the wrong direction is that a leg right left right left up his hands must have bled when he began walking surely he’s never taken a step on those legs for how long his hands must have bled when he began walking is that a leg there is something on him
is it on me they must have bled
creek creek creek
it’s green.
the cow eats freely are they human he is how there is something on him the unspoken system perverts is she immune is she ashamed he is desperate his hands must have bled
there is something on him how is she immune there is something on her its oozing
creek creek creek
how
di sj oint ed ignored
unspoken ashamed
ignored
real wrong there is something on him
it’s on me real is she immune it’s green
where are his legs
real wrong wrong wrong wrong
unspoken
ignored
creek creek unspoken
ignored
Turn.
it’s green it’s green green.
