Alex Ragsdale
What Do We Call A Dummy In A Box? A Dummy!
healing is not the same as hunger
distance is not the same as detachment
peace is not the same as pretension
life is not the same as love.
love is simply dumb.
when you heal? you move on.
when you cry? you release pain.
when you dance? you—what do you do?
have fun? feel joy? release all that precious dopamine out of your body? I guess,
not everything is black and white.
sometimes there’s gray,
(and maybe a hint of turquoise).
you’re in
a puppet box.
how many more people have to love,
before we realize, love is not the goal.
the goal, is to live, and once again
to live is not to love,
more so, living is an action,
a continuous action, while
love has—breaks, you will
never stop living, but
you may stop loving,
therefore,
just live.
we’re in
a puppet box
cut the strings.
A Dinner Scene
let’s all say our grace,
one hundred and fifteen military men
army dreamers.
precious lives, gone, but remembered
one particular soul lives on forever,
an army dreamer.
When he came to us, I have to admit
I was quite scared. This was our baby boy.
an armed dreamer.
I’d like to think, it was the systems fault,
They snatched him right from under our tongues.
a dead military boy,
His name engraved in dirt, like it’s an honor.
His uniform hanging in the clouds.
We should’ve had more willpower to say–
–No. We didn’t have enough time. And then,
dreams dead by army
A stupid, stupid decision. There was a
different future. One where I could hold a seedling,
to feel the generations coursing through our lives.
Maybe, then would we be able to eat tonight. Instead,
we’re gonna drive to the end of the world,
Praying there’s a line of tnt to bring us back together again.
Can you pass the bullets?
An Ode To Mr. Morale
I listen to a lot of that gangster crap, that music that turns young monkeys
into a statistic in america. And Oh Boy, after hearing these lyrics
I really want to rob someone. I feel like not going to school anymore,
and having 10 kids and leaving them all. Then, maybe I’ll go kill someone
and eat some chicken. I know this is jarring for you to hear, but did you ever
think for second that maybe you needed to hear it? Hear how diminished and
marginalized certain people think of my music? Let me show you something and I
really want you to pay attention:
Oh, this the part, he breaks my humility just for pratice
Tactics we learned together, sore losers forever, daddy issues
Think about those lines for a second–-do you understand? How about another set...
My Last Christmas toy drive in Compton handed out eulogies
Not because the rags in the park had red gradient
But because the high blood pressure flooded the caterin’
These are jarring lyrics from one of the blackest rappers I know. Not only are they jarring
but they’re real. Life experiences that most people can’t grasp. The blackest rapper I
know, performed on the biggest stage in America this year. And within the entire
spectacle, about half of the audience understood. And, about 75% didn’t. And while, they
were dancing to the funky hip-hop beats, we sat and appreciated. Because believe it or
not, the blackest rapper I know being on the biggest stage, fronting his blackest to
america, is amazing–even if they didn’t understand. That gangster crap isn’t poising, its
educating. Teaching realities greatest woes, the hard conversations that America wants to
hush. The music, these words—are lessons in pain, survival, and contradiction, lessons
the world refuses to notice if not sugar–coated in a cool new dance trend or not sanitized
for comfort.
I say, let that gangster music play on all the radios, and on all the streaming sites, and on
all the social media. And, maybe one day, that 75% will turn into 74.
