I. In a Real Revolution
In a real revolution
People don’t just change the face on the money.
In a real revolution
People sometimes change the measurement of Time.
People sometimes change the measurement of the Earth itself.
Sometimes, in a real revolution, the sky cracks open with new possibility
And People change the definition of being human, and of Human Being.
When the real revolution comes,
New People will create a new World from Time and Earth.
But usually it’s just the money.
II. Soul Application
On November 9, 2003, I applied for a soul.
I sent away to Pueblo, Colorado for the forms.
They arrived 6-8 weeks later, but it’s faster now on e-mail.
The form wanted to know
My sex,
My year of birth,
and whether I was married.
I was.
The form wanted to know
How much money I make each year,
and whether I’ve paid my taxes.
Pell Grants
Credit Cards.
Occupations and pre-occupations
Number of scars and number of scares
Tattoos and tattle tales
Road trips and guilt trips
And how I feel on a Sunday morning.
I completed the forms.
I put a stamp on the envelope.
I walked to the post office and dropped the envelope into the slot.
Six to eight weeks later I received my soul!
It came in a manilla envelope, with my name printed on the front.
I put the certificate on the wall in my cubicle.
Next to my degrees.
When was the last time you stood 20 yards away
From a grown man,
Who looked you in the eye with blood hatred
And screamed that you should die?
When was the last time anyone threatened to strike you
With the two-by-four in his hand
That held his American flag?
When was the last time you heard the word
“Nigger”?
How about “Sand Nigger?”
These things all happened to me in the last year,
For asking for peace.
This is nothing compared to an M16,
Or a blindfold and plastic wire around wrists
With a black hood over the eyes,
In front of the children.
This is nothing compared to the Apache helicopter
Hovering over the rubble of a home
While the women curse and the
Men run for their lives.
This is nothing compared to the taste of pepper
In the back of your skull,
50,000 volts sent through your skin,
Or solitary holding cell with no
Fancy Latin phrases like
Habeas Corpus.
This isn’t Rome.
This is the 21st century in the first world, motherfucker.
We don’t need no habeasfuckingcorpus
Or your mirandarights on a card … in English.
It’s nothing like that.
But that blood red face scares me.
It scares me almost as much as his
Friends in the uniforms
Who carry the tasers.
It’s been years now.
Every God damn morning
16 dead from a suicide bomb
23 gone in an ambush
4 in a hummer, dispatched by an IED.
Do you remember when you didn’t know what IED stands for?
Each morning’s headline dispatches more reality to memory.
Do you remember Colin Powell’s brazen powerpoint before the security council? Before the war?
Do you remember a sister, a friend, a husband who will not return?
Do you remember September 12, before we began to multiply the crimes?
Do you remember “cakewalk” and “They’ll be welcomed as liberators?”
Do you remember Berg’s beheading?
Bodies burning in Fallujah?
Do you remember how many Iraqis we've killed?
Do you remember this morning’s headline? Yesterday’s?
It’s been years now.
Every God damn morning.
The rhythm is a beating heart,
Warm and dark up from the floor,
It cycles once and then again,
The comfort feeds, desires more.
Piano sounds a cocktail glass,
Hints of melody and ice,
Splashes over rocks of sound,
Collapses once, and flutters twice.
The bottom rolls and swells and ebbs,
Buoys all the rest along,
Momentum builds and then release,
Eternal cycle of the song.
The strings sing, serrate, soft, or smooth,
Sailing over scapes of sound,
Provide the shape, guide the move,
And bring the melody around.
The sum is greater than the parts,
And music elevates the ear
It’s simple repetition now
12 bars of blues, can you hear?