Litany of a Communist
Poetry
I am a communist and I don’t give a fuck if that terminology makes you uncomfortable, or if it makes you believe I’m some sort of societal black sheep or otherwise inappropriate, inconvenient, or untoward in any context. I am not “left” of anything. I am the center of a politics based on human flourishing, equity, and the end of exploitation. The end of racism and ableism and misogyny. The end of greed, of bigotry, of needless suffering. I am not radical any more than self-love on the scale of our entire species is radical. I am not unusual any more than simple care toward others is unusual. I am unapologetic when I rest. I am willing to offend and unwilling to be silent. I am a writer and his voice. I am flawed, frail, mortal, temporary. I am the caretaker of my inner child. I am a brown-skinned man. I am working class solidarity, working class rage, working class grit, working class love. Like you, I am made of the stars above. Where law is unjust, I am crime. I am a spontaneous and fleeting rhyme. I am mutual aid. I am Molotov flame. I am pain; I am pain; I am pain. I am a growing plant. I am a late night rant with a need for paragraph breaks. I am something like a poem. I am a scribble, a melody, a sudden drop, a whole god damn vibe. I am me — which is to say, all that I need to be.
