Hey guys!
For everyone who missed the Hurricane Katrina benefit, here's the poem I performed there. Baraka and Algarin said they both liked it, which is a great moment of validation for any performance poet. Hope you guys enjoy it!
A Million Hands Reaching Upwards
Like a man howling in a buried coffin,
the starvation wage leashed us to a drowning city.
Poverty made us monsters
in the nation’s horror movie memory.
The only good zombie is a dead zombie.
Unheeded pleas rise from hot marsh water
like heat waves leached from the desert.
A million dead hands clench into fists.
Rigor Mortis.
All corpses turn the same color
buried beneath sand or submerged in swamps
Ghosts remember the blood
the living choose to forget.
Bodies that once swung from trees
now float down Bourbon street.
We are at war.
We are witnesses.
An army of the poor armed to kill the poor.
Mobile Irony, at home and abroad.
Soldiers stolen from street corners.
Street corners stolen from families.
The ghetto, a shrinking desert of opportunity,
spills over onto itself.
We fled to the oasis of the American Dream
and found out it was a mirage.
Baghdad gives birth to Ninth Ward slaughters.
White phosphorus outsources floodwaters.
Under orders, a National Guardsman
dies thirsty overseas while
the Mississippi River drinks his sister’s blood.
Men with rifles scour this town.
Their orders: Leave nothing standing.
Did you save the truth
or did you shoot it?
Who saw you
and can they prove it?
Did you find food
or did you loot it?
A hurricane, a war machine,
a new day, an old dream.
White supremacy.
Manifest destiny.
From sea to shining sea.
Poverty, wet with panting screams,
ruts with War,
all biting teeth and scrap metal.
In gasps and moans,
they give birth to themselves
squalling, screaming for the blood of children.
A left-handed voodoo, a system of clones.
A pause button pushed on progress.
We are witnesses to this primetime pornography,
this culture of life.
Bodies that once swung from trees
now float down Bourbon Street.
The water rises
and we haven’t learned how to build levees,
still puzzling over the
shaky foundations of yesteryear.
Gunbarrel mouths whisper
whitewashed words
witnessed by white eyes.
Staring at sunny predictions of weak protest
clouds pupils.
Debating violence versus nonviolence
clouds issues.
If an activist screams at the White House
and nothing changes,
does he make a sound?
Moral outrage floods both coasts.
We’ll march at most.
Investors propose toasts.
Soon they’ll own us both.
So we rally, dally,
sally forth and march.
Do politicans manufacture tragedies
or do we let them happen?
We are at war.
We are witnesses.
Nothing changes and it’s no surprise.
Our waste water protest culture
rallies a million feet from the sky
to the gutter.
We flood our PC cities,
and fail each other,
over and over again.
A million feet from the sky to the gutter.
Whose gutter?
Our gutter.
Bodies that once swung from trees
now fester on Bourbon Street.
Coretta Scott King cannot sleep in her grave.
Ten black Alabama churches burn
while hip hop cashes in, pop, lock, stock, and barrel.
Malcolm X cannot sleep in his grave.
Blue and white slave collars
slam shut around every neck
while stockholders stomp on falling wages.
Emma Goldman cannot sleep in her grave.
We are their witnesses
but our testimony is failure.
When will this movement
earn more than disrespect?
When will we speak the truth
that ghosts cannot forget?
Listen to the bloodless howls
of the forgotten dead.
For every lie, burn a flag.
For every invasion, storm a building.
For every murder, shut down a city.
This is a threat.
Tear out every millionaire’s tongue.
Flatten his tires in the bad neighborhoods he built.
Send his children to the war he started.
This is a threat.
This Mardi Gras,
Tie ten corpses to every parade float.
Dress every dead body in beads.
Rip the prettiness off the truth til it
screams
naked
from every street corner.
Never
Give
Up.
This is a threat.
2/10/06
For everyone who missed the Hurricane Katrina benefit, here's the poem I performed there. Baraka and Algarin said they both liked it, which is a great moment of validation for any performance poet. Hope you guys enjoy it!
A Million Hands Reaching Upwards
Like a man howling in a buried coffin,
the starvation wage leashed us to a drowning city.
Poverty made us monsters
in the nation’s horror movie memory.
The only good zombie is a dead zombie.
Unheeded pleas rise from hot marsh water
like heat waves leached from the desert.
A million dead hands clench into fists.
Rigor Mortis.
All corpses turn the same color
buried beneath sand or submerged in swamps
Ghosts remember the blood
the living choose to forget.
Bodies that once swung from trees
now float down Bourbon street.
We are at war.
We are witnesses.
An army of the poor armed to kill the poor.
Mobile Irony, at home and abroad.
Soldiers stolen from street corners.
Street corners stolen from families.
The ghetto, a shrinking desert of opportunity,
spills over onto itself.
We fled to the oasis of the American Dream
and found out it was a mirage.
Baghdad gives birth to Ninth Ward slaughters.
White phosphorus outsources floodwaters.
Under orders, a National Guardsman
dies thirsty overseas while
the Mississippi River drinks his sister’s blood.
Men with rifles scour this town.
Their orders: Leave nothing standing.
Did you save the truth
or did you shoot it?
Who saw you
and can they prove it?
Did you find food
or did you loot it?
A hurricane, a war machine,
a new day, an old dream.
White supremacy.
Manifest destiny.
From sea to shining sea.
Poverty, wet with panting screams,
ruts with War,
all biting teeth and scrap metal.
In gasps and moans,
they give birth to themselves
squalling, screaming for the blood of children.
A left-handed voodoo, a system of clones.
A pause button pushed on progress.
We are witnesses to this primetime pornography,
this culture of life.
Bodies that once swung from trees
now float down Bourbon Street.
The water rises
and we haven’t learned how to build levees,
still puzzling over the
shaky foundations of yesteryear.
Gunbarrel mouths whisper
whitewashed words
witnessed by white eyes.
Staring at sunny predictions of weak protest
clouds pupils.
Debating violence versus nonviolence
clouds issues.
If an activist screams at the White House
and nothing changes,
does he make a sound?
Moral outrage floods both coasts.
We’ll march at most.
Investors propose toasts.
Soon they’ll own us both.
So we rally, dally,
sally forth and march.
Do politicans manufacture tragedies
or do we let them happen?
We are at war.
We are witnesses.
Nothing changes and it’s no surprise.
Our waste water protest culture
rallies a million feet from the sky
to the gutter.
We flood our PC cities,
and fail each other,
over and over again.
A million feet from the sky to the gutter.
Whose gutter?
Our gutter.
Bodies that once swung from trees
now fester on Bourbon Street.
Coretta Scott King cannot sleep in her grave.
Ten black Alabama churches burn
while hip hop cashes in, pop, lock, stock, and barrel.
Malcolm X cannot sleep in his grave.
Blue and white slave collars
slam shut around every neck
while stockholders stomp on falling wages.
Emma Goldman cannot sleep in her grave.
We are their witnesses
but our testimony is failure.
When will this movement
earn more than disrespect?
When will we speak the truth
that ghosts cannot forget?
Listen to the bloodless howls
of the forgotten dead.
For every lie, burn a flag.
For every invasion, storm a building.
For every murder, shut down a city.
This is a threat.
Tear out every millionaire’s tongue.
Flatten his tires in the bad neighborhoods he built.
Send his children to the war he started.
This is a threat.
This Mardi Gras,
Tie ten corpses to every parade float.
Dress every dead body in beads.
Rip the prettiness off the truth til it
screams
naked
from every street corner.
Never
Give
Up.
This is a threat.
2/10/06
