The Walking Dead

We plucked ourselves from hanging trees, once strange fruit swinging in the Southern breeze. We grasped at the ropes collapsing our throats, piercing holes in our flesh. Crushing our bones and filling our souls with blood and heartache.

Twisting and wriggling to get free from its grasp, I violently shook until finally the knot loosened. First my neck and then my body fell into a vacuum. For a beat of time, there was nothing. Then there was pain. The impact left my already decomposing body in a state of disarray. CRACK. I tossed my dangling skull forward – GAH…then backward – FUCK…trying to snap it back into place. When it was finally set, I threw my arms around, trying to feel them again.

Creaks and groans and croaks and moans filled the air as I got my barring, picking myself up like cotton. The musk of the Earth mixed with that of our rotting flesh. With mangled hands pressed to the dirt, I peered into the dark, gazing past branches, green leaves, and red streaks. Beyond the trees, a yellow light twinkled. Using all my strength, I crawled towards the gleaming omen. We crawled. Unsure of our destination or the source of the light before us, we crawled regardless.

We are the walking dead, rising from sundown towns, razed businesses, and pillaged neighborhoods. Before, we tried to fly back to the shores we’ve always roamed, but soon realized we were stuck; with our lives taken too soon in a manner too cruel, our deaths lingered. Though we’re the ones who died, there too, where we belong, are Zonbi like us. Not blood thirsty monsters, craving human flesh, but dead people walking, nonetheless, in wake of sins long passed without pass.

Dead but walking. Laughing. Dancing even! In death, we are animated to life, transforming our pain into a wisdom known over generations. We’ll move to the rhythm of bones pounding drums, rattling our skulls and shaking our frames. What they call gothic we call veneration. What they call sinister we call revelation. Our ancestors inhabit our very being, and through root work, tarot, mojo bags and voodoo dolls they guide us with a heightened perception.

We’re bruised and we’re battered – all of the women and men and otherwise in me are tired. How else could we cope if not through zombification? Our rotting, maggot-infested guts let us plough through scorching temperatures and malaria. Our deadened limps let us endure attacks from dogs and fire hydrants. Our decaying will helped us go into the world when catchers and patrols and officers lied in wait. Zombification let us watch our deaths in technicolor– over and over and over again. As zombies, we are prepared to die again.

- Mo Wisdom