my, this coat of superficial yet rich historical element
surfacing shallowly as an arbitrary color, matters
because my color
has always been perceived-
in the stark bright, fluorescent white light of America,
and all that is seen holy divine right and pure-
as an antagonist
or antagonized
so I must matter
and I can’t stand how you ‘treat’ the ‘things’ you attribute matter to,
as things
tarnished, used, depleted, destroyed, and done away with
as if its presence is inconvenient
and you’d as quickly devise a method to do away with me with finality
if you could
I feel just like the bastard son of Mother Nature
as I am her Son
I should be proud of this
but the imposed treatment upon us both
makes it hard to call for celebration
when struggle permits the glory
and by the sudden or processive changing of a season, climate, or weather
or a natural disaster
can bring about the same attitude
to the my walking into a room unannounced or expected
or a momentary yet justified slip of composure
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