Woe to the Crips Woe to the crips of the bad-ass man’s land; woe to their knees and wheels. Blessed the throttled of voice and damp of ear, sing of sights ne’er bore witness to and wipe that smirk away, wipe the spittle from the wired chin for there are no actors to play you or you or even you. Woe to the crips of the land! Woe to the tubes and varied buckles. Blessed be those who refuse acknowledging our spectacle of ramps in disrepair and a Net given over to muzzlers and palm greasers; that sludge could fuel my iron lung, my eleven pace makers, my power chair, my 57 th MRI. But no, though they may take my lane they cannot seduce, no longer lay claim to my bullshit taxes. I want to know for once where my dollars are going, who they buy and what they are keeping quiet with trach tubes. I know they breath not for me; know even relayed via faults in my wiring, faults in my wiring, faults… …somewhere along the line Page 36 - Nine Mile Magazine

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