Prophecy
I will strike down whitecaps of longing on which the boats sail, Mama
I will strike down the buildings in which reside clouds of ammunition, Mama
I will explode the vicissitudes of hatred, armed guards
with jagged swords, with shields in the name of patience,
where cowardice is brandished in handcuffs, Mama
where the brute force of discipline is placed in whose hands,
strike down anything with a vein for bleeding and a shock of hair,
strike down by not striking, the baton breaks the head parts, Mama
when you had a mouth, you used to speak, Mama
strike down the hammer, the hammer strikes down
the heart pushes back, resuscitates, Mama
I reject walls and those who build them, Mama
I reject the safety of fear,
I reject salvation in the form of nourishment, Mama
Make room for the rising undercurrent
which will carry us to bloom, Mama
Make room for the resurgence of bliss that once filled your cup
Make room for men who say their name is grace or mercy, Mama
what they mean is root and chain
what they mean is organization as force
what they mean is tangle and barbed wire
prison is what they mean, Mama
I can bet you that language is not their own,
I can bet their tongues unfurl themselves at night
when their mouths sag in repose
when the mouth is no longer a hound, when the mouth
rests unworthy like a leash
sometimes that leather tears, Mama
I can say now, words were once teeth, Mama
I break my expectations when the bone is broken,
yet another man lost at sea, before that
back, neck, spine cracked, matters of discipline
the tufted fur skims the sidewalk, Mama
It was never discipline enough to say, Yes.
Never broken enough to say, No.
We ride now toward the last kingdom, Mama
Dark immigrant face, heart dissolved to a berry,
then shrunken to seed but don’t be fooled
when nothing grows, Mama
I was birthed here. I’m alone, Mama
Today I shall write one line that continues
to the end of the world
and in so doing I have faced the wound, Mama
Wound is the world with its hair on fire
Once fresh, there was my boyhood, Mama
I can say I’m older now and to say that
I mean it is real and I can face it, Mama
Say it now: The Future.
Black boot, black boot, black boot
Black boot, black boot, black boot
Black boot, black boot, black boot
Black boot, black boot, black boot
Black boot, black boot, black boot
March, march, march
Black boot, black boot, black boot
Black boot, black boot, black boot
Black boot, black boot, black boot
Black boot, black boot, black boot
Black boot, black boot, black boot
March, march
Black boot,
Black boot,
Black boot
Black boot,
Black boot,
Black boot,
March
My boots are a prophecy.
A future hurricane.
I was a boy. A man.
A father. A god.
I chisel no headstones.
I’ll never turn back.
