THE LOOK THAT SEVERS YOU IS NO GHOST

How can the firm
ground of wet grass,
dewy toes of the barefeet of liberty
be based on the wastes
of bourgeois abstraction,
like rulers invented god.
Out of the unconscious measurements
domination grew up building edifices
as a way of producing slaves
who we remain
believing our consciousness was unreal
compared to their reign.
What is the big bang to a subject in solitary,
on account of a soul wringing abstraction
bodies bow to in a hegemon’s wake,
their banners draping a creep of emptiness
along soft cheeks bashed repeatedly
by the fist of an idea.
Was night created before the day,
as the ghost of my freedom
dissolves into these alienated forms?