The future began yesterday and now we play catch up using hunted time. Our being alive while Palestine is not free means we are not as modern as we think and the only recovery from this is a post-activist flex.
Imagine we live in a world beyond our morality. An untameable wilding beast showing us our obsession with carrying out savior patterns is our inability to grapple with a world where our morality is obsolete or even that these ornaments are the architects of genocide.1
The moral high ground underneath me is unusually narrow. The goodness of us rests on the badness of others. I walk backward toward the future reorganizing senses and what gets worked through—a rewinding static—the noise of our collective reconfiguration. Here, disgust fills my belly and the gaps between my teeth snarl a change gon’ come. Like a troll I wither, disappear even.
I hand myself over. I give up and say, “I can’t do this without you nor do I want to.” I trace the soft of my tongue along their skin melting cacophony song a mating call replacing eyes with mouths tongues with ears and feelings with sensations to taste the other worlds out there.
The frontal body surgeons the mouth, nose, eyes, and ears located mid-body. The idea of moving my eyes to the back of my head hinges on impossibility’s namesake and the reworlding she might conjure.
My lover spins vinyl in the living room while I click clack on my laptop in the kitchen aware of just how much sense I do not make at the top of the turn of the Gregorian calendar. I feel a laughable liberation being an arbiter of refusing to sense make my way to freedom through friendly and relational sought after chaos.
paraphrasing Bayo Akomolafe
oooof so on