Wednesday, November 23, 2016

Sincerity/ Elegiac hope

There is a part of all of us  so-called oppressed peoples hiding in the west at strip malls and restaurants   colleges  amusement parks slabbed in ginger   google owl misfits and wanna be Grace Paileys afraid to run Coney Island in the snow      
                   She  waits   for a crisis   he awaits  his just outrage   so that we can behave as we've  always wished,    like heroes   no longer traitors in act  or in spirit   we can turn away from the bourgeois dream they  sold  us    in full repulsion       disdain the comfort and convenience brought about by centuries of war and pain     touch the land without shame  touch the machine and wince,  sleepwalk no   more         But in that   same    nook of our shattered hearts   we loved the role of the moral custodian from behind   the oak  and glass podium in the  brick forum built by slaves and the ghetto combustibles assembled by tiny women in factories and the berries farm workers picked for us, their sweet rot on our lips,    You have no name in the streets, no ones image to clean  up    you,   baptized  in blood and paper and selective forgetting  are the dirty lie and the music of its undoing