After failing as an artist
(a synonym for unemployed),
I worked in a mine in rural
America. Not much in those
badlands, except weeds the
colour of my skin, jingoists
who loved guns, and
Confederate flags. There
were some good people
like the ones who left me
alone as I hewed stone —
The greys and golden browns
carrying me away from
syllables and sentences,
images and abstractions.
Some hated me,
calling me an
Islamist, or asking me to
go back to my camels,
being the sand-nigger, I was.
But I hewed and hewed,
the greys and browns
becoming an extension,
a massive limb that swallowed
up my dreams and delusions,
peeling off the tainted
wallpaper with its stars,
minotaurs, beatific visions
and self-aggrandising etchings.
I didn’t frequent the one bar in
town, or own an internet connection,
I hewed and hewed —
The greys enveloping me like
sweet silence, the browns burning
away lyrical cadences,
and returning home,
sat on a moth-eaten couch,
pushing away some madness
beseeching me to become a
brown Philip Levine, praying to
the greys and golden browns to
carry me into a dreamless sleep —
monochrome and insentient.
For earthweal
Ordinary Person 
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