Tuesday, November 29, 2011

Poems after following the GA on twitter and the latest Occupied Wall Street Journal post and worrying a lot about race and colonialism


When your eyes run dry,
I will cry for you
If you will hold my hand harder
When I think you want me to go away.

When your stomach is empty,
I will fill it
If you will fill in the gaps
In my clumsy affection.

When you are falling down,
I will hold you in the light
If you will forgive me
For not coming sooner.

And if you cannot do all that,
I will still try to help
As long as someone out there
Still means me, too,

When they talk about 

An injury to one is an injury to all
And I don’t know where to fall
In the middle
On the left
In your face
On my sword
On the edge of the apocalypse
Rock your mic check
And the sweet space
Break it down
Open up
Rain check the sky
Lightning fast
Feel the blast
Fall up into
Apocalypse now
The beginning of the beginning
Shout and murmur and fear and loathing and suspicion and compassion
And all of the ands
Are still words on a page
As we’re living with rage
And the beloved’s betrayal
And all that’s left
In the I of the storm is


I feel lost without the park.

I started to lose it when the tents went up
And the conversations got squeezed out
And wandered away to 60 Wall…

Suddenly there was a barrier to entry

And I am skittish around barriers.
Who are you keeping out?
…You keep out me, when you draw a line in the sand

Or have a glass ceiling or floor or wall or door
(glass is made up of grains of sand, after all)

I am the unwanted
The uncomfortable
The unrequited lover (who makes a mess but usually means well)

And I love you anyway. And I loved the park.

And I am so sad it is not the place that it was: a place where the boundaries were dropping and I was embraced, taken in and comforted. Fed and warmed and given to… things were mostly given though yes, occasionally taken.

That’s still a better deal than I got outside the park.

So yes, screw us and we multiply. So yes, keep fighting. So yes, take it everywhere and indoors and set the place on fire.

But I am still sad that Bloomberg took my safe space from me, and I am not ready to follow you away from the park. If it is childish to honor a space people suffered to protect and defend, then I am a child listening to stories in the monsterful dark.

Please help me fill the night with stories, the long hard winter with novel ideas. Warm me with your companionship.

Please choose the now-and-future spaces with an eye for height.
Make sure the floors are limitless,
Stories so tall
They can fill a people’s library.

Then there might be room for me to sneak in on a breathless word
Or two.

And find you again.


No comments:

Post a Comment