The boy passed the joint to his grandfather.

A bulbous white cloud enveloped them,

Locking souls together by generations:

Generations walking backwards,

Generations drowning under design and democracy,

Generations pacing below sea level,

Slave ships cresting high above their abandoned spirits.

The Elder’s gray eyes dared look to the boy,

A solitary moment imprisoned between

Sadness and defeat,

The Elder had forgotten how he had landed there.

Rather, when he finally gave in, gave over

To the joint smelling of sweet ecstasy,

A lying down of arms, a formal surrender

To the white supremacy of all things

He could do nothing else but accept

And float on his hazy, orange spaceship

Waiting for his grandson to take the next hit.