#wethepeople
must recognize our Form
in the mirror,
see our Face, and make our reflection
as we kiss it, though it regularly sickens
Us.
I
We are still Us, though
that probably means little if it ever did;
We have been amended beyond recognition
from centuries of lobbing
off limbs, appendages, stitching clauses
like bandages then forgetting about them
if we ever shower,
disfiguring the pale torso of our Body
politic, naked and middling before posterity
grotesque genitalia dangling
hopelessly, and useless
between marble columns
unable to unite in congress assembled
erasing pluribus unum;
We're our Legs, buckling under obscene weight
now cloture’s invoked, the question ordered
on history with yays and nays,
discourse long reduced to the nuances
of blusterfuck;
We're our Buttocks, passing gas
bills, denying a snowball’s chance of
melting in frozen hell or on house floor,
and our Brain, lobotomized
better half yearning “Yes, we Can…
…ada” beckoning the coasts, blue dots
on blue dot ever browning;
We're our Fists, clenching gavels
while advising Mother Earth to **** up
because even without her consent,
reality’s adjourned;
II
We're our Skin—yes, our Skin—, thin-
ly veiling contempt insufficiently concealed
by layers of spray tan and unmarred
by blood sweat tears of our foremothers
and our Brow, not sweating more perfect
when it's so easy to turn and follow storybook greatness,
when our Fingers, callused from tweeting
Little Bits of *****
which though once again retitled
and re-released, remains a classic,
completely unrevised;
We're our Ears, nostalgic for the crack of doom
and we're our Tiny Hands, unable to help themselves
from popping a Tic-Tac and grabbing
onto those titillating, dusty buttons
on the hydrogen jukebox;
We're our Eyes, heavy
as a defeated queen
with makeup running, blessing us
all for this operant foray into madness,
ever observing how our Arms, which
(torches now extinguished)
flail in confusion amid incalculable darkness
still hoist our pitchforks low and
our Tongue still grievously petitions
for more deplorable words amid
hallucinations of victimhood;
We're our ***** *******
on progress, except
which—failing to rise to the occasion—
nonetheless manages
to flop over and strike once more: a dis-
chord in common defense of
fragile white male privilege
always showing, never growing,
general welfare and tranquility flushed down
the toiletbowl of history
hoping those old turds never
resurface, still ignoring the stench of injustice
and the chipping of gilded porcelain;
We’re our Lips–which neither Broadway hits nor
newspaper clips nor high minded pleas alarmed,
and with Dr. Franklin’s warning notwithstanding–
We are our Lips on treacherous steps which will be
all executive power herein vesting;
III
We're our Palms, grasping rope amid air
saturated in deathly vespers, which tugs
down-up toward unearned heavens;
We’re our ***** pretending to be
our Mouths which chide & otherize, while
our Shins expose their cuts to ****
bullet-holes welcoming the swift infections
in what dank sewage now pours from open
Overton windows, broken along with
any pretense of civility; ultimately,
the only thing we could shatter;
We’re our Holes, shamefully enjoying
the prodding and poking caresses
of anarchy, be-
moaning un-
Equal Protection law & order bestows,
depriving life, liberty, property
when our Hearts, weary of
the long hard due process, supremely
malign centuries’ holdings;
We’re our Immunity, sovereign it be
fighting all insults foreign and domestic
and our Voices rising in lamentation
for what we’ve lost and what we’ve barely kept;
We’re even our Hair, unkempt, distracting us
from enduring corruption of our Blood;
We’re our ***** too. No, never mind.
We never had any. But She did,
and class despite the strength
of glass;
IV
We’re all that still, and our Souls'
politic too, fractured much asking
what Un-
ited States we’re in;
Nov 16, 2016
Nov 16, 2016 at 3:24 PM UTC
Oppressive silence
Brings me to my knees;
Embracing the hopeless despair
That accompanies the same quiet
That comes before calamity strikes-
Before the storm touches down over land;
Before all hell breaks loose.
This forbidden orchestra
Of bodiless volume,
Plucks invisible strings
of the Fates, intertwined
To tug at my faithless heart
As I survey the scorched earth below.
How hollow it all seems now;
These trumpets of victory
Sounding choked and strained
Cracking under the weight of their lies,
Bursting the brass
as they bugle out a call to rebel-
For who could call this bitter resolution a victory?
Who could name it clean,
Justified,
When all but the truly frightened
succumb to this heinous masterpiece
Why think to make a new tune,
It asks us;
Why make a new composition,
When the old one will suffice?
Rolling over and over again,
Into new hands with the same minds,
The cycle begins again;
Exchanging one facade for another,
As the musicians warm up,
Ready to play the music that we've always danced to;
Mere puppets to the Maestros
That conduct and direct
Our shattered hopes and dreams.
Shall we not contradict
The balance of power,
Or else leave it to sit in the hands of fools and tyrants?
Once composed,
It can still be unwritten,
Unlearned;
A performance piece we won't allow any longer,
A dying art that deserves the dust that we've crawled from.
We are not pawns in a chord that will not harmonize with us;
We are not weak, shallow things that crawl
beneath the feet of these giants;
We are music itself,
A ballad of shared ideals,
A melody of minds,
unsullied by the temptation of power,
Our discordant notes falling away as we remember our worth in this world.
Like a crescendo,
We can join,
We can rise to change the music,
Rippling and reverberating across this vast auditorium-
For the whole world is our stage,
Our audience;
And they are looking to us,
To be better than what we've known before.
I can hear the beginning notes,
Wavering at first,
Whistled on lips in back alleys
Whispered on the streets,
In our hearts-
Calling to us,
Pleading with us to change the outcome this time,
Asking us the only question that matters :
Will you stand to ovation?
Or will you fall to devotion?
Feb 22, 2017
Feb 22, 2017 at 4:37 PM UTC
To wake up
against the rallying chains
of the unwilling,
who keep us captive and weak.
Lies become so cheap
you can buy a seat at parliament’s feet
But the price sleeps
In that house of white.
We as the people,
have a right-
to wake up
yet it is not enough,
awakening only works with
ten thousand fists in the air
in protest
Not to stand proud
but for firmness
denying weakness
We as the people,
are not a guest to democracy.
Democracy is a home for all
Those taller,
should use their fingertips
to reach toward the sun
rather than standing in the way
Let that light no longer be difficult to obtain—
let it reign
over abuse of power
temperature rising on the corrupt
our brightness
must be a force
to drive out darkness
Humanity standing tall for everyone
no worries of divinity
when the land we live on
wouldn’t be blessed by any god
soil planted by frauds
and the hate spread
grows nothing
from this earth
To rise-
Everyone can survive
Only with the courage
And ending of lost lives
Power depends on the downfall,
for someone to die
but revolution only requires
us
to rise,
to rise,
to rise.
Jan 7, 2019
Jan 7, 2019 at 3:15 AM UTC