Not One

I have walked those same white fields before, when God was but a boy and I was the wind dancing upon the grain. Was I made just as all other men? Is all this flesh born from the same womb? Did spread legged Eve push such terror, such victims into that Green lit Garden? I prefer to be of some other sort. A walking monkey can still prove useful, when walking is all that is required of him. I would rather bathe in a stream, howl at the night, grit my teeth and swing from the trees than play the games Men play. How they bloody this world and sip from a cup they dug up from Hell, they plant flowers in spring just to rape them in fall, they sit and complement each other on the size of their brains when compared to such vermin as the cockroach. But I would crawl with my belly on the floor and disease in my mouth as long as no Man could call me brother. They have bruised many trees with their fists and splintered many dreams with their lips, but I dance on white fields and I kiss the stars each night before sleep takes me in her arms.

No, not one calls me brother.