|Milwaukee, Division and Ashland. Six floors below the ground.|
The rupture begins here...
It is Prison Friday at Scission and this isn't exactly a prison story, but then again this is exactly a prison story. It is the story of the bigger prison and the smaller prison. It is not exactly a story about resistance, but then again this is exactly a story about resistance. It is a story about resistance that is not on its own going to smash the State and free the multitude, but it is a story about a resistance that helps keep up the spirit, or arm the spirit is perhaps better, so that we and our friends can keep the faith, as it were. This is a story that could have been on Cultural Monday, but then there is no more Cultural Monday, and today is Friday. This is a story about America, the one we used to spell with a K or even a KKK, and is also about tomorrow, maybe, and some other America, better yet, some other world. This is a story of racism and white supremacy, of cops and bullets, of blood and guts, and remembrances past and promises future. This is just a short little thang from the blog known as Prison Culture where sometimes one can catch a glimpse of the world, of scission, of the place where white supremacy and global capital meet, and where a sharp knife slashes both and where the tear turns to a rupture and the rupture to a revolution. If you know what I mean.
STANDING ON A SOAPBOX, CALLING OUT THE COPS...
I stood on a soapbox Saturday. I mean a real one.
Three kicks between the legs
That kill the kids
I’d make tomorrow.
No knocked on my brother Fred Hampton
Bullet holes all over the place
No knocked on my brother Michael Harris
And jammed a shotgun against his skull
At some point, we will meet
at the tip of the bullet,
the blade, or the whip
as it draws blood,
but only one of us will change,
only one of us will slip
past the captain and crew of this ship
and the other submit to the chains
of a nation
that delivered rhetoric
in exchange for its promises.