The two pieces pushing each other to build with half-burned sticks and stones caked in mud, primitive tools and instruments, in hopes of building a tower that will vehemently reach for the stars that always wink down at us as if we are mortal,
and as if they believe themselves to be Gods.
Oh, but how wrong are they! They blink through the ages and augment their flames several thousand miles wide only to burst and cease into nothingness, but we.
We grow, and grow, and grow,
through our reachings, reaching steadily with no cadence.
We are as limitless as we are infinite. And we are as magical just as we are mystical, because the ends of our sentences are finalized as distorted fragments, understood from the rhythms and melodies we utter, and not from the carelessly caressed symbols we write.
We end only when we wither, when I remain silent and when you lose faith.
Our world ends once we stop wavering mirrors that we held up to each other,
whispering in refracted poetry our deepest flaws,
and showing images of what we despised most within each other.
This wasn’t malice, this wasn’t bigotry, or belligerent frenzies, it was love.
Pure and unconditional love.
“Their strength is secret. They send ferocious roots beneath the ground. They grow up and they grow down and grab the earth between their hairy toes and bite the sky with violent teeth and never quit their anger. This is how they keep.”—The House on Mango Street, Sandra Cisneros
I want to feel like a child again. I want to hide behind cars as if they were giant space ships that I could board to visit other planets. I want to stand in a forest and imagine that the trees speak, in a slow and sluggish speech so ancient and beautiful that I could learn all the secrets of the world. I want to see a gorgeous woman and think of her as a great mother, a role I innocently cast on to every good-natured female. I want a graveyard to be the place where I can hide and read and revel with those living in an eternity that isn’t life. I want a playground to be a different time and place every time I step on it’s shores. I want to be afraid of the corner and what’s beyond it, but still go, because that’s all I know how to do. All I know is that going forward is the only logical direction in which to fling my body. That if I back away from shadows or closed doors, I’ll only run into other ones.
I’m done with living in my head, my skin boils and my flesh brims with pining. And I keep trying to quell these unworded poems by existing in music, in arranged words, and in dreams that stick in the sky like brilliant white clouds.
It doesn’t work, because reality isn’t synthetic once I realize the green I see on the ends of the mighty oak trees are real and not just a one-kissed poem or a naive hope, but a being that strives and exists. My brown skin is real, so is my arched nose, my large brown eyes, my smile, as well as my poems, my music, my hopes, my love, my ill-conceived passions, but I will make the two one. My eyes will reflect my poetry, my voice will speak out in megaphones the love I have for you and for this radiant gift of life, and my actions will carry out what passions I have scattered across the home I call my spirit.
Don’t you dare hate on a brother because his skin’s not as light as yours. And don’t you fucking think about hatin’ on some one lighter than you. If you do, you’re missing the point, stressing over menial shit. Don’t let anyone break your stride, and remember, you’re beautiful, even if you’re ugly.
When the International Criminal Court finally indicted Omar al-Bashir, President of Sudan for his role in arming and supporting the janjaweed militias who are carrying out the literal genocide of non-Arab muslims in Darfur, what was the response of the Ummah? Accusations of bias and injustice, but not for the victims of Darfur, but rather their murderers. Muslim murderers.
Indigenous peoples, Blacks, Arabs, Filipinos, the working class, the maimed, the homosexuals, the ugly, the women, the broken, the unloved, the weak, the Third World.
These are not worth less than the Whites, the Christians, the rich, the famous, the men, the beautiful, the elite, the heterosexuals, the powerful.
Harlem, Chicago, New Orleans experiences gentrification while the Middle-East is being told that Muslim life is not worth a damn. Economic imperialism destroys this Earth of its human capital and of its natural resources to take wealth and concentrate it into the multinational corporations and countries that already own the majority of the worlds wealth.
Your life has value.
Your life has value.
Your life has value.
Demand recognition for human rights and self-worth. No longer will I stay silent, I raise my voice in righteous fury as I extend these dry, dark, calloused broken hands to all humanity. I demand peace, I demand a sense of pride in our differences, I demand a non-violent revolution, I demand love, and God-Damn it I demand self-empowerment to each and every mother fucker that can draw breath.
I’m living in links and through your smiling eyes.
Questions, books, problems, laughter, honesty.
I’m seeking humility and peace
in the gutters, with whores drunk with my wine,
in a narrowed brow, a clenched fist.
I reign over what’s mine, and for you to smile so honestly,
after work i went to a park to look up as the sun began to drop out of the sky. it was cold and the wind was straight and fast. i didn’t plan to, but as soon as i hit the snowy grass i started to run. you know that feeling, when all you can do is take off and run. there is really nothing else that can be done, you just have to run. move. breathe. push. hurt. feel. so i ran and ran and ran until i got to going so fast that i started to fall. i didn’t fall immediately, it was one of those falling forward stumbles that you think you might be able to pull out of right up until the moment that your face hits the ground. i slid a few feet and rolled over onto my back laughing, looking up at the red sky, snow down my shirt, pants, boots. i just kept laughing as i caught my breath. all i could do was laugh at myself and everything around me. i even laughed at the sun, going down with all those colors. what a clown.
Since 1993 over 600 women in the city of Juarez, Mexico have disappeared, found murdered, in most cases brutally raped, and in all cases been scared. These acts are done with hatred or the thrill of it. The city is on the border with the United States and it is natural for drug cartels to pass through with the help of corrupt officials on both side of the border.
We want a band that plays loud and hard every night
And doesn’t care how many people are counted at the door
That would travel one million miles
and ask for nothing but a plate of food and a place to rest
They’d strike chords that cut like a knife
It’d mean so much more than a t-shirt or a ticket stub
They would stop at nothing short of a massacre
And everyone would leave with the memory there was no place else in the world
And this was where they always belonged
And we would dance like no one was watching
With one fist in the air
Our arenas just basements
and bookstores across an underground America
With this fire we could light
With this fire we could (light)
Just gimme a scene where the music is free
And the beer is not the life of the party
And there’s no need to shit talk or impress
‘Cause honesty and emotion are not looked down upon
And every promise that’s made and bragged
is meant if not kept We’d do it all because we have to, not because we know why
Beyond a gender, race, and class,
we could find what really holds us back
Let’s make everybody sing
That they are the beginning and ending of everything
And we are stronger than everything they taught us that we should fear
Have you ever loved a person in a way entirely separate from the affection you feel towards anyone else? You don't have to say who, I was just wondering if you know the feeling and if you know it well.
To be honest I don’t. The last “serious” relationship I’ve ever been in was when I was 15 and 16, and it was my first one. So, I was still trying to figure out my own voice, where I stand with the issues that plague humanity, and how to respectively and lovingly treat another human. All I have is an unrealistic and idealized view of love that I’m trying to peel off of my skin so that I might be able to find it. As I’m getting older and older it’s getting harder and harder to not be cynical and to not just call it all a joke.
I hope this isn't intrusive, but you last posted that you liked a girl and you were going to tell her Thursday. Well. Today is Thursday, and I recalled what you had written and am silently wishing you well!
(You don't have to "answer" this, I just wanted you to know!)
Thank you! And you aren’t intrusive by any means I appreciate all of your comments. :D
It went quite well, things are being taken slow, but all the cards are on the table. And the table looks like poetry.