To Be Called a Red

To transcend labels,

this was my original life’s goal.

To walk the path of life

thinking about nothin but the soul.


But obsession with the soul,

with meaning and existence,

is a waste of breath and privilege,

and all of it a heart blockage to resistance.


Then one day

after much trial and dread,

I find a word for my existence,

I called myself a red.


No it was not an insult,

not the act of bullies. I swear.

It just became apparent one day,

and from that day on I was aware.


To decolonize thought,

to remove the stink of imperialism,

it is the epitome of chance,

just a phrase called “dialect materialism.”


Death to the kings,

and the rich parasites.

Tremble at our sacred rage,

as the old order will feel our might.


All of the workers and beggars

shall one day reign over all the world, land, and sea.

March! March on fellow toilers!

And one day soon shall we be free.


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Published by James J Jackson

I'm a poet from California.

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