Unsung radicalism exists in the fractures of the asphalt machine. Afeni’s kid called the floorplan’s fissures a fertile heart of a beautiful Diaspora; the cracked concrete and the clenched-fist rise of a blood-red rose.

Radicalism is the blood crevice; the deep purple bruise; the serrated scar tainting humanity’s beautiful brown skin and testifying to Her liberation from the machine. Every accomplishment is blemished; and discolor accumulates. It slips lifelessly into the underground; the crude home of the quivering, dripping, peeled, bloody pulp, barely-humans who never made it out of the system’s saw-like cave. These pulp-people have no fingerprints to prove their existence, just watery blood splashes. The buzzing drone of their subterranean wailing is a masochistic Siren’s song, and:

“we feed off of finger pricks from CEOs who come to pluck our strewn gardens and meet sharp stems. Growing, pulsating beneath the earth, becoming livers, becoming spleens, becoming bloody vessels intertwined beneath the blacktop-encrusted earth; our skin. Our feeble existence is communal, we share throats when we need air and we split veins when pale skin begins to rot. We pump; our pain ripples sloshing, gushing, dripping. Our ribcage cracks and hunger rumbles collide. We breathe, gasping for blood guzzled air, feeling pain in movement, watching through necessity for lack of eyelids. We feed off one another, growing, pulsating beneath the earth, becoming a heart, becoming lungs, holding hands and interlocking elbows in the airtight lake of fluid pressure. We hose down raw gut tunnels and twitch ‘til harmony becomes staccato. We burn and ferment, letting the agitation sizzle, becoming nerves, becoming joints, becoming a skeletal king’s ransom, we become a brain. We become organs.”

Sunrise emerging from beneath the eyelid of mountains stares furiously upon the concrete, blinding it with white, threatening it and watching it soak tacit fire. The heat meets friction. An earthquake, like a large stomach rumbling, is crisp enough a whip crack to scatter piping lifeless cement, and heaven sent a shower called rain to clean the remnants.

Revolution is a garden.