Red Knot
I don’t eat in the morning—too much death. The morning is for mourning.
I mourn the systematic institution of the systematic institution of blasphemy. Sexual tension wrapped in politics, oppression and hidden dictatorships. Lorde said, “there is no hierarchy of isms.” and it resonated like symbiotic rivers and lovers lost. But, in this country there is hierarchy — hierarchy of everything. I mourn that. I mourn my naked self eating the shadows of phantoms. I mourn the others—the ones sitting at the opera wearing those fancy dresses and feather eye things. Glamorous like leather gloves. Shielded from the cold. I mourn the way they couldn’t understand because they didn’t have to. I mourn the sexual tension between desire and abandonment—one can’t live without the other so we continuously eat our own shadows—over and over again, saying goodbye as if it were the first time. I mourn the art of being human—the way the bad fruit gets thrown away, taken out with the trash, forgotten like pain and love and first times. I mourn the way we do it until we no longer can—we do it until it is taken from us and then we wonder why we did it at all. I mourn the trees and the flowers and the pain they feel when they are trampled out.
I mourn the reality that art can’t breathe in a system. The reality that institutions kill our insides. I mourn the way we refuse to accept this and so for many of us all that’s left is the outside—a shell we roll into death like cars roll into streets and water rolls into throats—trying to hydrate, trying to give life again and again but we can’t save ourselves from our own inventions. I mourn that. I mourn the ghostly chains we wrap ourselves in. I mourn the way he says he can’t breathe and instead of listening, his death gets pulled into the bodies of others, tugged on until it’s gone and nothing can be felt at all. There is no cliff, there is no valley, there are no ghosts, or dictators—there is nothing, you are nothing and the you you were, didn’t see any of it. I mourn that.
I mourn stupidity. No, actually I mourn narcissism. No actually I mourn pathology. Our president is a pathological narcissist. He bombed Syria, a place he knows nothing about, without congressional approval, without talking through the repercussions, without thought of us or them—I mourn that. He wanted the courts and the people and the media to stop saying he colluded with Russia so he went against them—painted a country in blood graffiti. But, he’s not an artist so it all went splat.
I mourn his blood graffiti found at dusk on the floor and walls of buildings—that should be the headline. His blood graffiti perched beneath floorboards, fastened to knees and belly buttons—the instantaneous art of war. I mourn war—the art of eyes covered in dust. The art of unhinged giants. The art of dropping bombs that kill people while we sit here eating our breakfast. I don’t eat in the morning—too much death. The morning is for mourning. It’s not a coincidence.
I mourn the way we don’t know what blood graffiti looks like—what it means when buildings are below ground—what the world smells like when rubble and detached limbs are abound. I mourn the way he wasn’t a joke, the way he was actually a murderer. The way he wasn’t the orange man but instead the executioner. The way he is no longer just a racist or a sexist or a xenophobe he is a serial killer and because we gave him power we are not victims we are his army, his partners, his constituents, his establishment. I mourn that. I mourn the blood on our hand—dripping from our elbows, flung from our hips. There is no religion or spiritual routine that can save you now. I mourn that. I mourn the way no one is absolved from all the death or all the previous assassins who took the podium. And yes, all the presidents carried canisters filled with blood and painted far off places they didn’t have to think about or see. I mourn the way we have never been innocents—not even when we were born. The way we lock people up for doing what those in power are paid to do. We are death ridden, war mongrels and we will die with blood on our hands. You don’t want to hear that. It’s fine—go back to your churches and your art and your cozy beds and couches. Go back to your oversized houses and your strip malls, go back to your children and your operas and your high heeled boots. Go back to your botox and your tummy tucks and your half smoked cigarettes. Go back to your pancakes and your french toast and your eggs over easy.. This is the systemic institution of the systemic institution of blasphemy.
I don’t eat breakfast in the mourning and neither should you.
Transmissions April 7, 2017—Shayrat Missile Strike
Birds-Eye-View Spotlight Singer
If you want more from The Birds — Check out Kita P Music— Kita P has a style of Soul, R&B and Hip-Hop. She is a Harrisburg, PA singer/songwriter native who has and continues to perform from NYC, Philadelphia, to abroad in South Africa and Gambia (Fashion Weekend Gambia). Her sound is often described as melodic and soulful with some of her greatest influences being Anita Baker, Luther Vandross, Me;’shell Ndegeocello and more. Folks have often said they can listen to Kita P with their eyes closed and be taken away; thus coining the Kita P Music as a #BlindVibe. She uses her art to create experiences that feed the person, the soul. Check out Dream by Aqeel, a Kita P #BlindVibe classic!
