Gather round brothers for the end draws near but soon we shall be rejoined in the halls of Valhalla Rally thyselves and go not quietly to your fate but rather with a loud and boisterous cry for you are not alone and he who falls first shall be best remembered until the final drop of life is drained from our last hero and we celebrate our glory once again in the fellowship of our demise
The brothers got mad they had a right to having seen years of struggle nullified in twenty-three minutes of brutality and nineteen minutes of deliberation Suddenly Rosa Parks' sacrifice was rendered inconsequential for segregation was self-imposed and they stood together a tight mob, monochrome exhaling an air of violence poised, guarded and whereas before they would beckon me to join them to laugh and stomp today there would be no revelry And when I approached they shifted uneasily in their places averting their eyes from the Devil's gaze as Perseus from Medusa and only after I lingered on at the edge of that seething mass did the one best known to me step forward and say "we cannot speak to you today" and although I had known I was white every day of my life I had never before then realized what that looked like through the eyes of someone who wasn't
bane of Earth spawn of Hell devil incarnate clawed from the womb of the Mother forged in the furnace of selfishness fueled by ancient blood fire-breathing monster of the indolent mass serpentine footprint spreads marking in stone passage of the Beast
I feel so much cooler than the people in their cars. They can feel it too. Even the wealthy woman in her sixty-thousand dollar Lexus looks with envy at my five hundred dollar Specialized as I glide noiselessly past, through weather she would not check her mail in. I can feel their animosity grow as I illuminate their selfishness and fear with my example of non-conformist green living. Who does he think he is, riding a bike in winter? Why doesn't he get a car like everybody else?
Grey. Not the dismal grey of rainy weather that lasts from dawn to dusk, but the grey of change. Violent, vibrant grey. Equal parts abysmal black and blinding white, like the leading edge of a sprinting August storm or the canvas of a sunrise.
In little circles I go round to end up at the start Trying to escape the sounds pounding in my heart
The day is long It has not gone And yet it does not stay But where it goes I do not know And why I cannot say