Kloncke

At this morning’s meditation, the still-fresh news crawls my skin like a tiny spider — down the neck, the right arm, until it drops, gently threading down from the tip of a finger.

Departure of imaginary spider creates a ghost imaginary spider.  Her double-absence haunts the mind more.

Trayvon’s killer has gone free.  Black lives again mean nothing.  9am morning meditation, I sit powerless.  Fatigued.  Trying to get free, be nothing.  I know I am doing it wrong.

I can’t

he can’t

we can’t

we can’t

we can’t…

…powerless for now.