Freedom

 

I hate that crazy silicon half-truth
"Freedom"
pouring from my TV and computer screen,
pounded into me from pulpits
and fifty dollar textbooks
in Mrs. Johansen's Art History class.

Drug peddlers utter the hated word
as they scale walls and duck from ghetto birds.
So do immigrant grocers with unspeakable accents
and hippie faces in shopping malls
that whack passersby on the head
with clipboards and voter registration forms.

I hate that pricking echo "Freedom"
that old businessmen grumble in high glass offices
while they hide from navy blue suits with leatherette briefcases,
monsters that gnaw on numbers
and spew paper ribbons
every April.

But no one hears the city crying
for its dead children.
Not even "conscious" brothas
or sistas raising more soon-to-be-sacrificed sheep.
Seduced into Freedom's self-righteousness
we've forgotten how easy it is to escape the excuse;
to free ourselves from the cries of "Freedom".

Rage against blind Freedom.
Rage against your constitution.
Cut yourself open and bleed it out.
Cleanse your memories and hopes
of the foul, irresponsible stench of “Freedom”.

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