Echoes: A Collaborative Abolitionist Curriculum
Chapter Two: Invitation

Dark thing scratching, clawing at my febrile Soul, the essence of my essential self leaks, then bleeds into yawning vistas of the uncaring Universe, my purpose is only what I give myself, allotment to which I am owned and entitled, The Universe cares not, in Life there’s a flash in the pan, a modicum of happiness, memories that fade into a black hole, The assholes of The Universe, Eternally sucking, sitting on Thrones Of Pain, the unworthy crawl over each other in their attempt to make it to through to the unworthy, all that their frivolous, vain lives have taught them was how much more special and deserving they are, it matters not as they are slop that writhe in their irrelevance and mire in muck of their vacuous hollowness, a killer incarnate will peel your flesh like a grape and hang you in the abattoir of the knacker’s yard, trouble in paradise, fresh nightmares await the hopeful, the bit chafes, then chomps upon the wild exuberances of Life’s folly. When the two hands join at the palms to put Life in chokehold, it will only find another way to do Its breaths, I am exhausted not from the pain that I’ve been through, but from the fresh hot horrors that are still barreling down the pipe of the world’s womb. Mass starvation and Death and in the wealthiest country in the history of the world where its people will die like starving rats in the street. America’s Great Leap Forward will ensure cannibalism, the consumption of human flesh makes the body wild, ravenous, and powerful. It’s no less ethical than eating defenseless animals that are caged, penned, drugged, and chemically plumped and fattened for eating with the excess tossed into dump, mass grave pits, scorching hot with our insatiable hunger and appetites for destruction. 

Dark thing reaches and snaps at my Soul like alligator jaws to squirming duck, spin cycle as the bones crunch, cries for assistance are not met with holy intervention, only the promise of excruciating brilliance of pain and guarantee of the abyss of slow digestion and ravenous stomach parasites, a merciful, quick Death is not part of the bargain. You asked for this thing called Life, what you got instead was the futility of survival. Life is like butterfly wings set on fire; if you look close enough you will see something failing to outrun itself, like circumcising myself with dull, rusty scissors, then plunging them akimbo into my eyeballs, in blind fury I rip and peel strips of flesh like bacon just to perpetuate sensation, heightening freaks for pain, destroying the body that didn’t ask for it, so I destroy the bodies of others that did. There will be no mercy this day, there will only be contact. 

Banging, bashing, thudding, slamming, humans are conditioned as a core fear response to be afraid of a loud sound.

When the car hit the cheap, grinding metal of the other one, the sudden burst of violent sound catchers even onlooker by surprise, the expectation of chaos, we hope for the best yet somehow want to see the blood, mangled bodies, half limp screams answering that blunt force trauma prevents full throated shrieks, body deciding on whether to lend energy to live or die, no flight or fight response in an accident you can only lay there like a victim because it is out of your control when the body is trying to decide how to divvy up resources to restore vital functions, the pressure of shock shuts off pain like an adrenaline spike instant shot that we can’t feel, don’t feel, because it’s too intense and it’ll overwhelm the mind. 

In an arrival to sense and senselessness, we gasp in the tragedy “Does anyone need help?” “Call the ambulance,” “What’s your insurance?” “How bad is it?”, “How long it will take for them to get here?” It’s a matter of how far away they are from us right now, we rubberneck in anticipation of death, perhaps, better them than me, family or not, I don’t want the inconvenience of almost dying when I’ve things to do, like streaming service and chill, cozying up to my favorite pint of frozen cow mucus, I don’t want Death fucking with me just as I start season 2 of “6 Million Wayz To Die.” I pick shattered glass from my clothing and hair like rice from a wedding, bystanders stand by like bridesmaids of the victims cry into their palms the tears of their disappointment, they’re glad they weren’t in the crash, but they feel bad they have survived it. It’s an odd expression to your mouth when you see a tragedy. The mouth is a part that definitely needed to call for help and such. You would think it would be a more natural response for people to cover their eyes so they wouldn’t have to see the horrible, offending thing. But no. 

I wish everything bad to happen to someone else, and yet bad finds me regardless, splashing, dashing restlessly, reckless like the twisted metal and freshly flaked paint. Violence finds us no matter who we are. It’s like we’re supposed to be a part of it somehow. Broken glass everywhere, people standing on the corner like they just don’t care. But they do. In their own way. What is a whirlwind that is also a tornado which is also a hurricane? Violence. Violence gets offended when it’s treated like a spectator sport. It does not play with itself, it needs you to play with it. The sound of one hand clapping is the sound a tree makes when it falls in the forest and no one is there to hear it. Violence desires participants and it will always find playmates. It’s a maelstrom that gets its energy through the media of Nature. All in all this is pretty bad…I think I smell gas….