Fifteen Years Fermented

Little CaesarOn September 12, the brand new $800 million+ Little Caesar’s Arena kicked off with a Kid Rock concert on the southern edge of the Cass Corridor in Detroit. It was the culmination of white billionaire Mike Ilitch’s* fifteen-year “dereliction by design,” scores of properties purchased and left to rot.  Land values were intentionally driven lower so Ilitch could buy even more. One week after the grand opening, prompted by this journalistic prose, Lindsay Airey was visited by a nightmare. Her attempt to relay it in poetry: 

A sea of black faces.
Beaten, downtrodden
by violent displacement,
callous disregard.
Greed turned sick
the souls
of these precious ones’
attackers.
Gluttonous murder,
seeping like poison,
hemorrhaging
out their murdering pores.

Their
innocent spirits
too good for this world.
Too good
for
this
world.

The war-torn gore
of
capitalist calculus.
Dead or alive?
I’m not sure.
Like ghosts,
they are haunting that place
now.
Always suffering,
thirsting
with no relief.
Exposed
to continued violence,
with no cover.
No option for retreat.

Moans
silent with agony.
Frozen despair
and horror
fill their faces.
It’s as if nothing can be done
to restore joy.
It’s as if
these faces
have never known it.
It’s been stolen from them

by the white-faced monster.

Hidden behind suburban gates,
safe from the
“dereliction by design”
he dictates.
Unending,
unimaginable suffering
doled out
like externality cost
for his
impure
derranged
white billionaire wet dreams.

Nothing little
about this Caesar’s
reign of terror.

Hell on earth.
Yes,
surely.

In equal parts horror/rage,
I wonder,
my tech-wired brain
still dreaming
in “tweets”:

“Do all these cousins of Lazarus haunt @MikeIllitch now?
I hope so. It’s the least they can do to repay him, for all he’s done.”

I wake.
Trembling in horror.
There is no consolation.

Later,
only
(a small) resolve:
I will never step foot in that shrine,
built spitefully upon the graves
of these countless,
unnamed,
unaccounted for,
living
sacrifices.

God help us.
The god of mammon
grows more insatiable.
He is hungry,
he will not rest.
Devouring everything in his path.
All the paths
laid bare now.

Nothing left is sacred.
Nothing sacred
is left.

Nothing left but
crazy

bread
extracted,
ground,
fifteen years fermented.
Rising now,
cruel,
out of all the blood and ash.

*Mike Ilitch died on February 10, 2017.

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