FOOLISHNESS and LOATHING in the EVERGREEN STATE.

Art by Overton Loyd

A weed smokers heaven. Where hell is a breath away.

Pick-up trucks with flags- American-Confederate- Blue Lives- Mericas favorite militias- the accepted racists, fills me with a calm rage from the poison they spew into the world. I haven’t broken down yet, but I’m running on fumes.

In my life, I have seen real, true power. Birth, love, heartbreak, war, revenge, kindness. The desperate begging for life to be spared, from bullets and knives fighting to end bloodlines. Eyes seeking murder and bodies fucking to avoid it. The momentum of winning and losing- all started from a thought.

I wasn’t alive during the civil rights movement, but I’m living in X and King’s constant un-rest since Blacks demanded a right to move freely, while the world claims they chased away money and quality of life. So, I know we all just can’t get along.

I’m a veteran. I live in a highly military populated state. Where the government claims to be indivisible from discrimination and racism but conducts deals, and hires leaders draped in it, on land they confessed to stealing. We have small towns and cities where people joke “there’s something in the water.” While feeding their families and keeping relationships fresh through permits authorizing the hunting and harassment of species with darker pigments.

This is why White people are anti-fragile. The magnitude in which they’re taught to remember their power versus how Blacks are taught to never know their own is nuclear.

But I know better, and I want that power for Black culture. For our violence to be tolerated and examined with a euro-centric eye, claiming color blindness. I want our celebration to be paid with currency that doesn’t include inditements when our popularity can’t be controlled.

I live where progressives are regressing, and right wingers spit scriptures with venom, seizing whatever sense is left. And it doesn’t matter which side they claim, their main goal is to prosper while barely helping anyone outside of their gang.

They pretend to be on your side and push you, deeper, creating the distance of divorced co-parents. The disturbing part is when you disagree, stating obvious, real facts-for the protection of humanity- you become combative, or racist, but if you’re black, you also become fragile. And that is unforgiveable and un-American.

I give no excuses, for myself or others failure. I just try to pull myself up without pulling others down. At some point, me and those who hate my existence have to go. And I’m trying to be as prepared as they are. But I haven’t mastered greed- the American way- funding both sides of a war I instigated and invited myself to. Persuading others to hate the new enemy I created.

Capitalism is the perfect policy. Those who disagree, are usually broke and die that way. Fighting racism mutes’ pockets. You don’t throw up anything except prayers-unless you’re a patriot who fights Americans. Proudly flashing the mediocre hero sign to assemble fellow pale skin domestic terrorists. That’s the only entertainment America loves more than rap music.

In this predominantly White state called the Evergreen, White people commit the majority of crimes against humanity. Un-reported with a supremacist’s influence, their crimes are not always against Blacks. But enough to fit the description of usual suspects. Making Black people feel as if any contact with them will leave our bodies as an exhibit.

Then our pain is rejoiced like a hymn making you dance and stomp your devilish shadow. I want to relieve myself of evil instead of life. And that’s almost better than a beauty with soft lips.

I think Black people care too much. This is another reason America labels us fragile, at-least mentally- which is another lie we waste time thinking we have to defeat. We take too many steps towards struggle lead by minds we can’t change. we get stuck as a threat and an afterthought, leaving our families praying for hope they never received from tithes or soaking up a bitter punch delivered from a blessed cup. Goddamn, we spend enough money toasting the dead homies.

We become scared to risk anyone else. We become paralyzed from heartache. And nobody, not even people who owe you will touch or help someone they think is sick or a waste of an investment.

as kids, our real happiness came when the system gave us weapons and drugs, AAANNNDDD-FUCK YEAH-they only got stronger, sexier and deadlier. That might be why I never developed a sense of humor.

Kids can always spot the weight of danger. The puddle from a parent’s tears, the gentle close or slam of a door. The Just coming to check on you versus- I got a call from school footsteps. The depressed look of the woman losing out on the wedding bouquet versus arrangements thrown on caskets. The medias organized racism of condemning Black gun violence-while comparing White’s to the first round of puberty.

Cynicism is deadly when it’s no longer a joke. And I never found anything funny or entertaining about the realness of racism. Because racists mean what they say, do what they mean, and kill at will.

And ain’t nothing realer or more gangster or terrorizing than that.