Proxy Post 77/96 Chapter 12 part seven

I Dove as They Drove on Grove Street

They shot the van. I took this as the signal to bust out of my mobile prison and breathe freedom anew. The seam created by their bullet holes, spilling fresh nighttime light into the interior of the van, is where I applied the full force of my foot to effect an exit.

The door opened. I dove out. The van was speeding, so when I hit the ground, I rolled to apply torque to my body and thus dilute the dizziness. The force of the ground (pull me under, othello) versus the forced self-sufficiency I was bringing manifest through my body (the spirit must carry on) erupted in a turf war of asphalt, concrete, tarmac, and granite. An alphabet of conflict within me, without me, jumbling before your very eyes.

Bang. Bang bang, bangarang. Here bangs the ways of crime, west to east coasts and north to south neighborhoods. Guns flying, fired from their bullets as the impoverished shoot themselves to stand their ground. The laws of the land, cause before sand, protest an inborn truth as they blackmail our urborne youth, black male, into the ways of vagabonds and aqualungs. I'm not erasist but. Inebriated, it's that or incarcerated, thy names are all the system promises for their future.

I think the cops in the van saw this in me, this urge to put truth to power, and so after I dove out of the van, they kept driving, afraid to face no blogger at all. Also, the gunfire.