But also to yourself, who tries to understand.
Textbooks are for learning, to give to
nobody’s children, owners of nothing
The nobodies: the no-ones, the nobodied, running like rabbits, dying through life, screwed every which way
But textbooks are for cutting garmentwallahthroats in their sleep, for the ones
Who are not, but could be. Who don’t speak languages, but dialects
Because art galleries don’t pay minimum wage; textbooks are for
Who don’t have religions, but superstitions
–Overhung microphones swinging for a purpose,
Who don’t create art, but handicrafts. Who don’t have culture, but folklore. Who are not human beings, but human resources
Who are Section 144’s fashi chai Mussolinis but in countries where the trains forgot to run on time.
Who do not have faces, but arms. Who do not have names, but numbers,
Where “Yaar muje bhuk lagri hae” appears as white noise.
Who do not appear in the history of the world, but in the crime reports of the local paper
On the pigeon holed, left-field, cubicles in the tabloid section, where Ershad’s fists slam the tinted windows, when the CMH psych ward sodomizes our gun-wielding, porn-addict, forever unable to use a keyboard to masturbate.
The nobodies, who are not worth the bullet that kills them.
Don’t have your passport sown to a كَندورَة , when you are out in a tight dress to get hit on by
Abood & Hamoods.
NaPoWriMo: Day 12