When we finally start talking to each other after the fall, huddling on the side of the island where the black-eyed humans can’t hear us, we all tell the same story. A day that started with the sun rising and waking up and going off to whatever it is we do during the day.

Let’s make one thing clear:

there wasn’t a big bad wolf.

Not in my story.

There was no screaming

and running of little girls.

This is an old story;

One where

the structure of power

that had devoured

momma momma momma

it was ricky it was ricky

momma don’t believe that it was ricky who done it

she thinks i killed him

momma momma momma

don’t call the fuzz

it was ricky it was ricky

in this town

words hold hostages

not meaning.

if i cry i will

bleed, and i will

lose,

integrity and i will

rip apart the frontdrop that has

made my portraits pretty

for (maybe) minutes on end.