Wednesday, May 26, 2010

sb1070 poem - (draft)

i. town

we watched from below
and kept it borderline
that’s all watchers do
and talked and talked
a neon hole in the side
of bigger promise night

went and put them damned
stars out again

motherfuckers losing count
and angry

that’s all night time watching is
a phone call voice activated
what between the giggling
and the flat out singing
heard ‘em carrying our tunes away
not smiling

so we can close the window now
the smoke is all up in here

we saw ‘em
blowing smoke rings
shaped like sickle moons
the size of new mission entitlement
a lease note all verbose
and heavy
and never quiet
when he’s asked to be
and if already talking he'll shut up now
like he never even said shit

no the silence never really came
and still ain’t coming
just like it fuond a spot to post up
on a swing set
where our kids should swing

don’t think we didn’t see that too
we saw y’all comin…

even the niños
clocked them at the door
somehow their youth still flowing
with the contractors at 14th st
cutting everything off

and all the growth that
got stunted

water and trash
that’s all these places come with
and there’s really no protection clause
not even the architect
next door
all in a row

their children dancing through
st. vitus toe point
with no child a missing headline
a scourge on a colossal scale
like titan judgements
huge and gold-domed in the distance

these were not our folks
so well spoken
yet poorly dressed
and we could count on
their offenses
sure and clear as the coins
in their hipster pockets
with the pants so tight

we knew exactly how much was there
and there was reason for our outrage
as we lost our language
like a preious stone
got sold off
but still spoken better than we could

sing it rightly

and rightly

we lost the gift
of witness

though we still see things
we’re just not tripping

ii. city

we’re tired really
tired of what will hang above the street
all fecund and reflect the daily insolence

no motives,
tweeker’s vacuuming again
sirens and a car alarm
brute’s thud on a hardwood ceiling
lay waste for no quiet nights
for what a soul in hand
may whisper
whatever music from our vicious mirrors
panic kneed into the groin of
tired movements
souls splintered in each silence bloomed
to march upon a desert
and a world

i suppose
and duck
and sway
and punch
and move
the way they do

so much reflected in the whispers
and the looming cacti silence
like those students
getting handcuffed
tall and ancient
like they straight been here before
as though they
went and remembered us ourselves
dragged into the brush

we scream
the way a screamer would
when dragged the color off of his flesh
his lips still parting
against the whipping of hot air

deplorable non-cause
a motive so perverse
podium acceptance speeches

amplified the stars erupt
whole continents abide


how the sea erupts
how simple he got next
how can it be it was all so simple then

now we have grown
to hold loss in our hands
to map the reading at the sextant
eyes have grown
in silence

dodging the customary back slaps
and high fives
of the builder set
for maladies that spring
again from pathogens
found in the crevices
the news erects

disease in there
a maddened cow regurgitating: “hope”
my god and: “change”

for all the sullen homies
still laid out
to rest under the tables
of oakland’s 4am curfew
or the crew that waits outside
under the sheen of civic divestment
laid out cold
under the stench
of their oughtta been’s

and how the people wonder
watch and marvel
at the peacock stink
the diastrophy of guns at church
and sing the noncombatant songs
of garden and brick
of life in lieu
and “hope”

“my god,” they say, after they nod.
“we wanted

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