It’s September. The traffic slows. The traffic slows, the Tuesday after Labor Day I am on the street at 7pm. The street is closed, there are no open shops on the block. There are no other body’s on the block. Just me and Jaz, and the homeless lady wheeling her bike ahead of us.
In the canyon I think of the word holler–not like to yell. But like, hollow–down in southern Virginia, where the homes run two to a mountain pass and people still talk about living round the next holler. Where the water in late spring runs so hard it looks black. Black, with churned up cream. I don’t know why I think of this except of course I do: it’s September.
Jazz is 17. She is an artist. She is 17, an artist, raised without mom. She is 17, an artist here for art school in the canyon, raised with no mom. She is a new neighbor in the upstairs room. I take her for dinner. She tells me, you’re my first white friend! She throws her hand over her mouth right after she says this. I respond as a blonde valley girl.
One million roles.
Jazz laughs. Against the holler walls
her laughter rolls.
They shot that boy. They shot him. For three days on my knees: I Cried. Shot him down & under our unkept noses WEBECAMEAMILITARIZEDSTATE. NO ONE DID A FCKN THNG. HE WAS BROWN.
I am Privilege.
*Correction: The Ppl. The Ppl did it all. The revolution is Live.*
September in Images
These images aren’t September.
They are September medicine.