It can't be done.
You're not allowed to change history, they say,
even as they do exactly what they claim to preach
against, letting your ancestors' feet
and hands, and skulls, and bones
lie defenceless in the wasteland
before they are obliterated from the historical record
by you and every single one of the things you amend
in the name of a coherent narrative and trend.
I can totally understand
what makes a healthy graph, and a pretty pattern.
But we're not here for healthy, or pretty.
We're here to get lucky, and a little fucky
with what remains, and what has been obtained
from the leftovers of your graverobbery, skuldiggery,
your mucking about in our sacred sands.
This is our beach,
our shoreline, and our overreach.
Our grounds for dreamfishing, and our coral reefs
where we bleach our own histories, thank you very much,
without need
for intercessors to plead
that we should be worrying about whether we are guilty:
we are. We aren't yet free.
So I'm, at least, done with being
enslaved to shards of pottery
and snatches of dream, torn and tossed as fragments
of academic tea-leaves.
Sure, the word resembles another from Portuguese,
but then, you could say that of us all, these strange
Indignant deities from another realm
where a little bit of mixing has been allowed to set in the sun
and become so many Vanda Miss Joaquims.
I'll take a chrysos.
I'll take a steen.
I'll nurture my own ocean,
forge my own rivers and streams.
And if it doesn't make sense? Well, why do I care?
I see not evidence that it needs
me to stare, blindly and thoughtlessly
at a word that has no meaning to me:
now, later, or on any part of eternity's shores and tides:
From here on out, we write our own destiny.
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