2019
February
Standard

NSA

I saw a brilliant boy make a meal from waste in a dumpster

I saw the last steps taken by a man too few years since his first

I saw the broken, battered, remnants of freedom succumb to exposure

I typed old words on destroyed thoughts using rhythms unconscious and though the words came they were timid. Timid. They knew they were watched, observed while birthed, cut off before they had a chance to breath.

I saw children ripped from their mother’s arms, beaten and laughed at, cast aside as if meaningless, piled upon other children, buried deep in refuse.

I saw injustice in arms reach, put my head down and typed. It is all I knew. But freedom can never again be typed. Freedom must be forever in longhand. Pencils do not yet report their use.

I shredded my one time pad and sent the pieces to the NSA with a coded note reading “Get off my lawn.”

The end