I.
we look out over the grasses and grains as the wind
shares life with them their spirit different than in
rain. gusts kick up over the rolling hills breathing
life into the trees again. what was it like before
w.a.s.p.’s reign? before colonization, did these
pecans fall the same?
did the five nations i’m aware of that hid away
share the pecan’s name? how long can i trace
these chives’ or wild onions’ or poisonous oaks’
roots in this place?
can i trust the records kept at the botanical research institute
or afford the material cost of learning from the five
nations? destroy the lands just to pay respects but i’m not
those ancestors entrusted to burn prairies; relatives keepers
protectors of these lands they’re still mourning.
we were forced settler by the half that holds the freedom of memory; brown
skinned suffused into olive by the history of the euromexi settler gentry left in
our consciousness until we take up the task of unforgetting;
how many genocides were they allowed to forget to monocrop to their
pastoralist fantastical heart’s content; what did the mexi parents run from
with the euro gentry, to immigrate before borders and be held in place by the
legal settler identity? what do our stolen ancestors call the spirit in the wind
anyway?
II.
we look out onto the rolling hills
a nearby settler’s chickens roam
allowed to be free range in ways most of these native grasses called weeds
will ever know. the modern dinosaurs fertilize, walking over accumulated
seeds and pollens—the gusts help kick up bugs for them to cycle but, like
cardinals, they eat the cat food left for the mammals.
where do the nutrients in cat food come from? what happens to the nutrients
as they get processed by each animal? should i have to kill thousands of
animals removed from the shrubs they love just to study that? bourgeois
colonial science tells us so.
where’s the balance on the hills?
only the decorative plants are managed
and from settler consciousness comes the need to kill native
life on the land to call it managed. a squirrel maybe plants
another tree, but we can’t see the seed.
so we have to wait and see what emerges from the squirrel’s
potential incidental agricultural experiment.
gusts kick up over the rolling hills again as
life moves around us all
matter alive and connected
like us.
III.
we breathe the air in and wonder where her particles have
been. from what occupied lands has this scent drifted in? the
sound of jets pick up again weapons manufacturers and army
personnel in need of “tests”. what occupied lands did that burnt
jet fuel come from?
what murdered dead stolen lands have i been forced
to become?
strained relations between the stolen and ancestral parts of
us at war with the parts comprised of the settler nation or at
least their products.
the jet fuel moves the jet the air moves what it’s
spent the plants too become imbued with stolen
land weaponized and used for training.
what plants grow on the lands that are occupied
to make the jet’s components? what birds roam
over the lands the jets will go? what occupied
peoples have we been witness to the training
for their genocide?
more rumbling beyond the treeline and gusts bring
back the dead leaves to life. the gusts keep mounting,
building, colliding clouds condensing and blocking
energetic light.
IV.
we focus on our breath again, and start to wonder from what cycle of
life has this air been stolen by the settler bourgeoisie for us to take on
their legacy of stolen land? they build us of what no one consents to,
the air no longer given to us by native plants our people connect through
but tainted by the spirit killing breath of capitalism,
the social system that colonizes you,
from the inside out replacing your every molecule
with stolen land as you’re bombarded by how this
society is material.
settler minds constrain time and remove what is real just to
mythologize the political lines of flower moon killers. just
as jets occupy to build and fuel more jets.
the vultures make their round through the area
unphased by the colonialism they witness. the web
of life laid bare to the eyes of the hunter of the dead.
how we have been colonized is not yet fully realized
through all consciousnesses present.
vultures move through, other predators too
and cardinals and jays and titmice dart past.
the rumble of international fascist violence not fully
realized in the minds of all consciousness present.
the hills are alive bees, their friendly wasps, and
flies remind us of the other connections
between life.
V.
we should know the native names of everything but
intergenerational scars still act as a cost that prohibits.
we do not know what grasses are sacred for sacrament and sacred for
sustenance just so settler minds can constrain our time to make us reliant. then
we hear the bugs pick up again the leaves, grasses, seed pods, and branches
jump to life again. the distance grows loud with cars (stolen land)
jets (stolen land) construction (on and with
stolen land); the air fills with debris and other
pollution drifting off to colonize the air of
other nations.
why must we uphold these contradictions
just so settlers minds don’t feel friction?
just so these lands, plants, and all native
life aren’t as free as a settler’s chicken?
a half denationalized brown turtle islander/half scottam settler lady faggot with a body feeling the weight of bourgeois medicalization, wallamide is an anti-political propagandist comprised of social clumps of microbes and human cells (currently made of accumulated stolen land) on turtle island. pulling from -and revolutionizing -a background in bourgeois material, social, and historical sciences, her work centers around land back and the death of dictatorships of ruling classes and their violent societies. as part of her personal struggle against bourgeois science, she seeks to engage with proletarian science from the margins. ALOCASIA is her first lit journal publication outside of her blog/music sharing page on mirlo.