Imprisonment

Watch as the bricks are stacked, as the barbed wire is laid, as the electricity runs through the fence. Watch as the glass is cleaned with toxic blue, just enough to see the sunlight gleaming, but never cracked to hear the birds. But there are no birds here, nothing but the sound of gears in an invisible wheel. This is the new industry. The forced masses in the cotton fields are gone, but they fields have been replaced by buildings. Glass. Steel. Bricks. Thousands of buildings dot rural towns and poor desert communities. Thick, fortified, covered in silver fencing and the even thicker layer of punishment. Scum. Inhuman. Trash. This is the domination of one class over another. One man, a white man holds the keys. Thick. Desperate. Men in suits play with many lives. They are numbers, they are cash, they are profit. Men in suits stoke the fear of a supple public. Other. Dangerous. Hardened. Playing with their subconscious fears. Black. Brown. Gang. Fear of the other is evident in the polling booth. Crime. Cops. Enforcement. Law after law has come, with it, a new slave class. It is the new cotton field, only contained. Steel. Bars. Gun. Don’t worry, they won’t get out. Like the bad dream, just go back to bed. Forget. Cleanse. Look away. Hundreds of thousands of them are in there. They are fuel for the stocks of New York, energy for the machines of Wall Street. Profit. Privatization. Profit. They are the pawns, the simple lives that have been unwillingly sacrificed so that a ruling class may prosper. In cages, in farms, in factories churning out lacy garments. This is imprisonment in America. Brown and black men. Poor men. Dominated. They are the new American slave. Outfitted in orange and pink. They are the factory workers, the only manufacturing left. Cheap labor. Better than Mexico or the Philippines. There is no sympathy. Imprisonment is not only punishment, it is the desire to dominate. One man over another. It is not quite killing. Not the momentary rush of taking life. This is the application of torture. Year after year, the slow grinding, the slow decay. But the men are compost. Soil. They churn the hidden industry. They are the river. They are the stocks. They are the profit, they are the capital of other men in suits. Raw material. This is the new imprisonment in America. Watch.