Saturday, July 14, 2012
Civil Whites by Michael Day
by Michael Day
War torn cats creatively maneuver their worlds without war on stoops steeped in history of a different sort. Infants bounce from one lap to another, tragic trajectories trickling from the corner of their young lips, dripping insecurities not yet known. Seasons pass. The cold hard stare of winter has met its match. Cracked lips and bleeding hearts yearn for summer justice, but live in the shadows of winter warfare.
Transformed corners adopt different shades of color at roughly the same pace that blood coagulates in the wound of the wounded. Those on the cooperative corners cite green as causation, but the color responsible for this situation is blinding.
Property owners perched from rooftops miles away marvel at the misinformation. Like small children they clasp their hands with glee, smiles edging the corners of their mugs. Later, maps will be drawn with red lines, removing culture from the cats and opportunity from their children.
The spring brings nothing. Corners still crumple under the weight of injustice. Memories are boarded up. Streetlights dim to the color defined as despair and abandon blocks harbor screams for their lost patrons.
The rain ceases and the summer befalls the cats. 68’ Chicago. Direct your attention to the Chicago 7, but ignore the thousands, if not hundreds of thousands, of Chicagoans still fighting. Anti-war protests for a visible war, but there will not be any demonstrations for the war these cats faced.
One rock from the yard. One brick from the home. One nail from the wall. Homes vanish behind Caucasian veils. Say goodbye to your history. Say goodbye to your community. Chicago owns it now.