The River
June 28th, 2018

Aye Fernando:
Fernando!
What the fuck. 
Where they at?
Paddle back!
I’m missing half a pack,
caught on to call it fanny.
I’m so glad it’s trendy.
Hopefully life jackets now come back,
not washed up
or muddy,
maybe soaked,
just with somebody.
Moving, still,
un-stone-cold.
Fight erosion.
Pure water smoothes the skin of those it kills.
I started this. 
I said: let’s go,
and this way,
not like that.
It’s the perfect day,
there’s no excuse.
We’re just as free: rather,
straps just as loose.
Our bows both drown.
Unethically won the right to resent my competitor because
one name is unweighted:
whiteness
always wants to ripple it’s way to the top.
Falsified by amplitude:
only able to scream success from its crest after forming a trough.
Gotdammit, this roaring river has had enough free speech.
Follow some other elsewhere:
this ancient rain quenched only some with wealth
while waterlogging the laborer.
Laid out
and pressed,
presented as nutrients.
“It was just history,”
the sole influence. 
Skeletons make the banks.
It’s sadistic to call this scenic.
But here I am, 
too privileged to feel
I’m filling eye sockets with the artificial tread of my new Nikes. 
I think I’m too hip to hurt people.
We must stop whitening anti-racism into an accessory: 
it’s not to be capitalized.
But to be honest,
if it weren’t, how else would I be distracted from the person who kept splashing at and around me.
But anyways,
where’s my friend, Fernando?    
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