I remember the red faux-leather bound encyclopedias I consulted to do my homework as a child. The internet was being conceived and birthed somewhere in the world, but had not yet reached Doncaster.
Now, this promiscuous beast is omnipresent, our senses are constantly tethered to its many tentacles. I’m courting the web—it’s a serious relationship. I learn from being entangled in it.
What does it mean to be well read? This is not red, it is being read. Meditate on reading red. Close your eyes, the back of your eyelids, well red.
Bloodshed, red, read daily in the news, old news, black and white, white and black lives matter. Seeing red with what I read. Repetition. Repetition. Repetition. Dehumanized, desensitized brutalities I read, I read. Reading aloud. Permitted matter, allow these bodies to be: exist. Freedom to walk the streets, hood up or hood down. Denied. Freedom to auction the firearm, permitted. We gon’ be Alright. We need to be Alright. Anger aloud. Otherwise, we suppress and we go cray. I’m angry, I’m black, I’m red with black anger.
I have been nurtured and well read. History repeats. Read on red about the dead: Brown, Gray and so many more shades gone to the shades. Dead. I’m dead serious. Read it. Read it. Change it.