The Taste of Illusion

Outrage is humming in the lower atmosphere–that special kind of heat that ignites revolutionaries and reactionaries in the same chakra, churning up bullshit-scented gas. That gas leaks into the air, forms itself into words on video screens, and takes on a life of its own.

A cop choked Eric Garner to death because he could. It was captured on video, and whoever makes such decisions decided that there was not enough evidence to charge the cop with a crime.

Hee hee ha ha ho hee ha, says the clown.

For many–I would even say most–of the people who recognize that this event is fucked up and wrong, there is a particular flavor to their outrage. A tangy, subtle note that only shows up at the end of a swallow. It’s an array of spices, grown in the soil of beliefs that have been embedded in us from birth.

This is an outrage that says, somewhere deep down, that what has happened is an accident, an aberration; a glitch in a system with many glitches. If we could only just patch those glitches in Babylon v.2015, everything will be okay.

This is the flavor of illusion.

America the beautiful, a collection of borders drawn up by genocidal invaders. They’ve raped our babies and feasted on our blood and flesh since First Contact, since day one. They’ve been a plague to the earth, destroying, poisoning, laying waste to life in all forms.

This is what the system does. This is what it has always done. It has trained us to believe otherwise, so that it can continue. It is a master of smoke and mirrors; the truth of what it is and what it does to us–all who walk crawl swim fly live–is obscured. The enemy is invisible. The enemy is in you. To the extent that you identify with the system, you are the enemy. This is true of us all.

Calvary troops used to bury our babies in dirt up to their necks, in front of their mothers, then kick their heads off. They gave us ebola on a blanket. They split us open and fucked the wounds. They sawed us down, burned us out, piled us in grotesque union in the bowels of ships. They make weapons that can blot out the sun, turn thousands of square miles into charred and lifeless rock.

Are you surprised that their physical and ideological descendants would choke us to death in broad daylight?

You haven’t been paying attention.

Defang the snake.

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About DZAtal

DZAtal is mad digi.
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