Season of the Gadfly

We’re here, but you’re not listening.
You, the self-appointed, peer-appointed pukes
whose voluminous barf gets washed by white gloved bankers.
The barf accumulated in the trade of the diminutive.
Little people. Little. People.

We scream. We cry. And I, like a good little gadfly,
tell my truth to your minions, who then erase the tape;
clear the trail of emails, like it never happened.
But it did. You know it did. I know it did.

We bite with our words. We sting with our debate.
And, we laugh when you come back with
driveling twists on our intent.
Ours is purpose. We are small. We are many.
We are the people upon whose land you tread.

We matter, but not to you. You, who, chronologically, taught us that
Native Americans didn’t matter, African slaves didn’t matter,
Mexicans didn’t matter, women didn’t matter,
and WE didn’t matter when we were children.
You taught that only white men mattered.

You lied. You always lie. You live a constant lie.
You are nothing but lies swimming about in your
white halls of injustice. You weave lies into desperate false truths
using the latest technologies, never thinking of me.
I invented technology. Yes, trust in me, and I’ll bite your ears.

Admit it, and we’re done. Admit all of it.
Admit that you were, and still are, afraid.
In case you don’t realize it, that’s our common ground – fear.
Admit that you cower at the very thought of death.
Your own deaths. Admit it now before we lose our fear. Or not.

We will keep biting. I will keep fighting in my sweet little gadfly way.
And you can keep swatting at me. Keep trying to kill.
I will keep laughing; because, surely, you know by now…
I am a spectral gadfly. The one you saw coming
The one made of my will.

I will win. Gadflies always win.

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