The Black Slash White Thing

Henry sitting on a torn green leather sofa on Sunday,  getting high, he loved smoking ganja with his coffee in the morning. 

Listening to Etta James, thinking she had so much soul, Etta James, Sylvia Plath and Marilyn Monroe, plenty of soul. 

He didn’t care for Christmas and this year was worse. Relations digging up harmful shit for no reason, blowing their mouths off on the internet to get attention, old never-have-beens wanting something, relevance on the way-out. 

Tired of hearing about cops in America killing black guys on the street for no-reason. US cops attacking like pit-bulls, trained to react like this. There wasn’t much to say about it,  it pissed allot of people off and it should.  

The black slash white thing in America stunk all-over,  there was some kind of junk inside it that needed to be pulled-out and buried. 

America a big bully and a control freak wrapped up into one. In the end America was always the winner. 

Henry felt strung up this holiday season, like a puppet hung on strings  in storage, behind the stage somewhere, feeling holiday deficiency. 

The gods only gave you so much life to live, having life was enough sometimes, you could ask for more but they, the gods, may not give it to you.

In the end there was little choice for all, at death-time, money couldn't help you anymore. 

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