Treehouse Riots

“Fuck if I know. Maybe it’s Spanish. Maybe it’s from way back when language first come around. Easiest way to separate your shit. You the nigger. That’s your shit over there. I’m not the nigger, this is my shit here. You feel me? I know they called us that when we was slaves. Not me. My people–blacks. NEgroes. When we was slaves they called us niggers. So maybe it’s like callin’ someone a slave. Your mom called me a nigger back there. I don’t know if that was the slave in her or the slave master. The white or the black. I don’t know how you use the word if you’re both. Seems like it’d tear you in two, straight down to your soul. In the end they just words. Words don’t make a car run. Words don’t build no mountains or make no trees. Words don’t make God or love or adventure.” He took the last drag of his cigarette and flung it to the ground. “Words just words.”


“They stayed up all night. The wind never let up. You can’t sleep in a wind storm. If you’re in a valley or a canyon or someplace with lots of trees it’s even worse. You hear the wind. You hear it but you don’t always feel it. You’ll look up to the sky and the trees’ll be so far tipped over they look like a boxer hanging on the ropes. It’s amazing. And the wind rolls down the canyon so loud it sounds like an avalanche and your brain, your brain tells you it’s an avalanche and it makes you feel the fear. That fear of being alone at night. It’s coming. Danger. You’re going to get hit. But the wind only comes often enough to remind you that it’s there. That you’re a man and not much more. Dust that the earth can, like, flick off its shoulder when it’s done with you.”


“Shit, I hope they burn the whole city down.”

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