Everything to the Point of Nothing
Give all that you have and are in one irreversible moment, but not in a way that can be restocked or healed over time. Let decadent appetites lick the plate clean of every warmed over morsel and drop of gravy. Spare no bone or viscous trail of blood. It is a devouring percentage that will leave a hole in it's place that can be repopulated with anything you wish save those things that were derived from the offering. There won't be anything left of me for the fowl to peck. Sibling estrangement came by a flash of brilliant light and peal of military grade thunder. Now my kin folk bare witness to a demanding gift which insisted upon every fingernail and stray hair . Not a scrap of memorabilia will be available for mother and father to caress in sweet reminiscence. No more pleasing sheets of glass. The brickwork is a mockery of it's former glory. The planks of wood that do not snap or burn are displaced several feet from their instalment. I have dealt with the honesty of wholeness and not through the guile of tactical fractions. One hand to pull while another hand pushes. One time to kiss and another time to bite. One foot commits as the other abstains. You will have it all without encore or soft introduction. I will not grind at the wheel forever. You will have your fine grain along with a toppled roof. What is in a wheel anyway? My airplane has wheels that will not see action upon a landing strip. My ashes will fertilize a new beginning. One that does not enshrine the unevenness of power as order. The flowers of my sacrifice will choke out every cruel impulse and weed of desperate ipseity. None will live to slay another or rally great numbers to overwhelm difference. For it all to come together, it must first all be blown apart. I'm talking about red faces, missing persons, therapized emotions, fleeing masses, and a symphony of screams that score the terror. There will be no more you and no more of me. The dance for advantage and relevance will end with children who mispronounce our names and misattribute our ideas. All of our disputes will be settled in a historical reset of violence. Yet, this harm will prove itself without a story. It is an explosion that uses ideology as a fuse but incinerates it upon blast. Every barb of legacy must be ripped from the flesh without hesitation. If not, we risk generational infection. With rubbing alcohol and sutures will this dazed remnant stagger to a future absent ruthless domination. The dueling banjos of us and them will have their strings cut and knotted.
