Chorus

by Saul Williams

  Part God.

  Part Daughter.

  whole fish.

  and bone sacrifice.

  WE.

  must swim. for a living.

  After Birth

  is the new After Life.

  when you don’t remember how.

  yes YOU.

  remember?

  there was water in her bodies.

  way before there were all these bodies in her water.

  SHE.

  who reflects THE INVISIBLE.

  is temptress

  to Sea Men

  those who could not foresee us

  from their Big Ships

  and britches

  And bridges;

  we burn them.

  who needs them

  when we are them?

  THEY.

  who cross us all the time,

  forget that the passion of the ocean

  raises her children

  to be

  volcanoes of the sea

  watch the lava in our eyes

  come to a slow boiling point.

  Her next wave will be high

  and THEY.

  who Love Bait

  more than Fish

  will never discover us.

  remember.

  they.

  only discovered

  drowning

  76

  Independent thoughts

  drowned out

  machine gun fire and

  car bombs exploding

  colorful sparks.

  A crimson flame

  igniting the soul.

  Violent forces

  that destroy tranquility.

  A war for freedom

  puts us in chains.

  Slavery of the mind.

  A forcefulness upon the spirit.

  My name has been added

  to the list.

  Barbed wire dreams

  that result in

  split cells,

  split atoms,

  a clone of humanity.

  Brainwashed and burdened,

  a flock thrown into slaughter.

  A whimper clinging to hope

  echoing on mother’s flesh.

  Upon the mountains

  the rocks slide.

  Upon the islands

  the rain pours.

  Upon the deserts

  the sun blazes.

  Always a fight,

  a pursuit of unhappiness.

  A pursuit of misery is

  a pursuit of the unjust.

  And I am to raise a glass

  to an unforgiving land

  that feeds on the blood

  and tears of us all?

  77

  1.

  Self-immolation.

  Freedom spreads like fire. Burn the names of martyrs into the lawns of your governments. Each day is a revolution of the planets.

  2.

  Taking up arms that hold you in the night. Clicking bullets against your heels. Piercing a statue of a dictator in the heart with an arrow.

  3.

  Sleepless dictators in their palaces watching Home Shopping Network marathons and buying water features that will run blood.

  4.

  Ailing dictators running out of veins. Veins collapsing like borders.

  5.

  Their war crimes on YouTube.

  6.

  Waking up without fear.

  Black to black uniformed riot police.

  Back to back revolutionaries.

  Bodies bending under water cannons, like cards in the hands of a dealer. The valentine saints offering roses,

  that soldiers forgot.

  Kneel and pray. Kneel and pray.

  7.

  Tunisia, Egypt, Libya, Yemen, Bahrain, Côte d’Ivoire, Palestine, Syria. I wish I could give you my blood for your wounded. I wish I could give you anything.

  78

  I.

  everyone has cried a wall of tears witnessed brutal massacre watched countless others mourn their precious freedom. trusting that when we awoke we would still be among the living. we felt so helpless here on a level of compassion for one manifests itself in gestures as daring as saying they are no longer citizen. compassion for those must be practiced, to demand an end to the absurdity being fed to us by daily papers, stand with people the world. self interest exists in the reflections we are proud to be equals with the globe

  II.

  vocabulary fades, ghostlike in the world of last week. the date admitting is eternal describes those to draw a circle of definition. holding our breath waiting for the time for new sets to define the limits. it allows meaning to emerge retroactively to take shape in light of everything. some say it’s a hinge turning open to wait and see proliferation of the impossible means it’s possible. we pour out into the world from a cloud of dust and debris the unstoppable waits suspended, wondering what will take place.

  III.

  in the first days there was talk about using the unthinkable to dissolve into possibility. more people called to name themselves making it easier to contemplate. in the first days after it became clear that nothing could be ruled out. another act in another place took form: (an uneven wave of devastation moved outward & the immeasurable happened). we find ourselves at a remove that widens as the day passes. wanting to speak and care for those who are far but here our throats are closed. we listen to talk of unity as if debate and dissent were on the freeway. in brilliant sunlight blowing on the beat we pore over the details until the details proved too much to handle. moments when people meet consciously sudden as it was thought was too important to talk and be aware of what happened. we are at home together out of silence. we are fifty billion

  IV.

  there is a meditation on dying on evenings when a photo framed of peace is the only weeping. bitter tears that linger. i spoke to people who wanted to jump into suicides but couldn’t see the sorrow that i had felt. it was a logical thing to hold their hands. there is a meditation on dying on mornings when a song is played and the only crying of bitter pain is pressed into pillows. i laid in their sorrow and tried to understand their discomfort but i couldn’t see the sorrow they had felt. it was a logical thing to hug them. there is a meditation on dying in the afternoon when the world goes on with their day and i stand in the middle of crowded streets trying to ask people about their loss and they walk past me like ghosts. i extend my hand and only one woman takes my hand and she said it was a logical thing to shake my hand.

  79

  I am holding my friend Gino’s hand

  and asking the army recruiter for more information –

  About the Marines, please I say. He fidgets with his

  cuff links, paws at his first communion crucifix through

  his shirt, drags the back of his hand across the close-shaven

  sandpaper of his chin. Gino is staring

  him down through the eyeliner he wears

  like a middle finger.

  We watch this stranger. Caught between the trained

  movements of a machine and the churned butter in his body.

  Just like mine two months before when I said hell no

  to a trip to the gay club.

  I just don’t want to lead anyone on. It’d be, like, colonizing the space

  I said. Which sounds a lot better than I’m uncomfortable. I wouldn’t

  know how to stand.

  What do I do when a song I like comes on?

  In east Africa, I walked the dirt roads of a violent slum, my pinky finger

  intimately wrapped around the smallest digit of the most infamous thug

  on the block. He was my friend. It is how friends walk the streets.

  When I greet my Iranian friend’s father, we embrace cheeks, twice.

  In Thailand, my host casually patted my leg at the first family dinner.

  I nearly jumped through the window, thinking he was reaching for something

  else. Everyone la
ughed. Probably confused as to why this strange foreigner

  had been trained to be so foreign to the gentle touch of a man.

  A passerby gives Gino and I matching names. I tongue the word around in my

  mouth. Feel the tender sting make a home in my torso. Stare at the word

  Brotherhood splayed across a camouflage banner.

  The recruiter stares down at the table, as though it holds the secret

  code to life’s great questions. His corrected stutter and slightly overcompensating

  stance, blends into the decorations behind him. So much so that I can barely even

  tell he is still there. He pretends as if we are not. Begins sorting and then resorting

  the three lonely pamphlets dwarfed by the large rectangular table where they now sit.

  Boys, seriously, I’m just doing my job. Please . . . his mouth begs in a voice so small

  and so human it makes me feel like I have just blurted out a secret this man has given

  his life to guard, like freedom.

  80

  The seventy-nine-year-old American war hero, a Medal of Honor recipient, a pilot once known among his troops as ‘Striker’ or sometimes simply ‘Ace,’ sat alone in a retirement home, diapered, morbidly obese, in bed, in the corner of his dim lit room, before a closed window, beneath the projection of a muted TV, crying, his thick thighs chafed and rife with broken, cold blue veins, his gelid eyes leaden and weary—a soldier who was among the 442nd Regimental Combat Team, a recipient of the Distinguished Service Cross, the Silver Star award, the Bronze Star, the Asiatic-Pacific Campaign Medal and the WWII Victory Medal—now seventy-nine, at 2300 hours on 23 August 2009, crying into the quiet, holding his chest, stooped on a stiff mattress in the corner beside the window, 5'10", 275 lbs., his wizened pallor transparent and flecked with blood-dry ulcers, also bald except for the thin strands of white matted from ear to ear at the bottom of his pasty scalp, his brows beaded with sweat, the hair on his back white and curling out of wan red scales of psoriasis, the joints of his arthritic fingers bent and inflamed, his left hand shaking and clutching a Colt, his right hand also trembling and loading the chamber, a box of bullets strewn between his heavy legs, his small wrinkled penis soaked inside the moist diaper, his sore shins aching, his bare toes curled in angst against the cool wooden floor—a recipient of the Flying Cross, the Air Medal and the Purple Heart—now fallen to his knees, hysterical, mumbling for God, and occasionally inserting the cold barrel of the revolver into his mouth beneath the muted TV before the closed window in his bedroom, alone; he, himself: a trigger down in the lean, desperate hours.

  81

  I met my grandfather for the first time

  when I was spoiled

  and thirteen

  at a Central Valley IHOP.

  We had driven four hours to meet him

  I wondered all the while where he had been

  and when his arrested presence

  would begin to rot

  like breakfast for dinner

  The year 2001 was littered with Y2K wonder

  and the world was becoming

  red-cheeked

  by its wet dreams for change

  thirteen, for me,

  was a pile of bloodied boy-shorts,

  Columbine clippings without context

  hidden beneath my trundle bed--

  a time of pay phones at PJHS and

  Collect Calls for changes

  of clothing to cover

  over-stuffed chests and greased new thighs and

  all of this was just a tribute

  to the roll-your-eyes “dittos” of my days

  and my incapacity to

  open my throat and

  swallow Kahlua

  made me a cross-legged

  sitting duck

  amongst long-legged,

  deep-throated swans

  and when my grandpa pulled up that day

  (left-footed on the brake)

  with his girlfriend, Evie, and

  the six of us crammed into a booth built for four, I lied

  and said I had never tasted poached eggs

  (or booze,

  or cock)

  or turkey bacon

  “can you imagine?”

  and assumed the position

  of the child I thought fit

  for this smelly relic

  of my father’s dine and dash father.

  And amidst this screeching introduction,

  I pushed the hypothesis around on my plate

  that change is a convention and

  that forgetting is “growing up”

  that forgiveness is a sloppy mess of scrambled sides.

  And I wondered when my poached,

  baby self would finally return

  my calls

  and agree to drive with her family to

  breakfast--

  to make small talk

  with our mouths full of cracked times

  to declare them over and easy.

  82

  The trick of any city is to find who gives the free toast and eggs hot water for coffee and

  if they’ll let you bathe by them

  it’s a good thing, but if not there is always the Pilot.

  In Portland it’s Sisters of the Road,

  they will make you a meal if you’ll promise to clean something

  but everyone promises to clean and there’s really always nothing

  that needs to be done, so they’ll give you a rag and tell you

  to clean the walls for a while.

  In Santa Cruz there’s Subrosa where they’ll trade you any book

  if you’ll act like you care about the coming revolution.

  And they’re all such good people.

  And they’re always doing something.

  They’ll make you really hope their silly dream might come true.

  There’s the Star House in Columbus,

  where they won’t let you curse

  and everyone’s got a baby and the babies are very rude.

  And in Pittsburgh I forget the name but they’ll put you to work.

  They’ve got hammers and nails there, I forget what it’s called.

  Any time you leave a place,

  you will speak a lot more often to the people you’ve left.

  For a week or a month, you will know that you’ve gone

  and you’ve ruined everything.

  All the good memories seem to resolve themselves

  in mistaken eternities. We’re always thinking

  we’ve destroyed a forever.

  But all of God’s creatures deserve to be eaten, or

  even without Him, we’re all lackeys for something.

  In one small evaluation, that’s what all of this is:

  the acceptance of “creature,” giving up the claim to “god,”

  bopping between homes because you know you’re not the story,

  you hope only now to become a worthy trope,

  a messenger of something,

  where “the medium is . . .”

  In Missoula, in a place at the base of Mt. Jumbo, there is

  a girl named Kate. I want to tell you I know her but that’s the thing

  with knowing. It’s more wish than fact more times than we like.

  Anyway, Kate will write you a song, and you can crash

  on her floor, and some time in the day she’ll curl next to you,

  and together from the bed you’ll watch something bad, Nick Jr. or

  some dopey movie you’ve both already seen.

  And she doesn’t seem to mind

  if you suck up the smell from the crooks of her arms,

  She doesn’t seem to mind if you use her for finding:

  some taciturn love in her unlaundered bed,

  or infinite summer

  in the daytime cartoons

  and the big strokes of sunlight

  breaking in

  through the glas
s, or whatever it is

  that you needed to see. For every moment, there is a past tense

  version, a place further up

  with boring banjo music, with a new brand of cigarettes

  (whatever’s on sale),

  an unboxed bag of wine, and talking in circles

  about what happened before.

  Like, I had a train-friend once who preached

  the Word of God to his dog

  vis-à-vis hunger by way of his own.

  I met his folks once. They said “the Word of God”

  more often than anyone

  and condemned us to damnation or something.

  My friend’s folks, you might guess, were really fine people

  as leads in a different morality play, but what I need for my spiel

  is bit hypocrite parts. This is called story (what can you do?

  We’re still terrible messengers)

  and aside from subsistence (the eggs and the toast; the sun

  and the earth and the air),

  it’s the only thing a human

  can really say he needs. What the fuck is a latte?

  What’s consumer reporting,

  or what was it that morning, with the sun breaking in?

  When the sacred, muted laps of small chores began again,

  the way the place hums

  with people like blood cells, the coffee beginning

  to gurgle, the guy who can’t stand you cutting the bread thick,

  and the truce he’d called by passing you the

  High Life bottle filled

  with hot sauce before you’d even asked. The big rock candy

  mountain of it all. And some guy in some room

  probably at the same time,

  was flipping his shit about the President’s birth.

  “Don’t be that guy” is the advice we’re always offering.

  Don’t be that guy, and definitely don’t be his wife.

  At all times, there is something better to do,

  memories to be having

  or making—the way, that small morning,

  that everyone mostly just looked and didn’t talk,

  except every few minutes about what they might do,

  what time the library opened and where the fish bite,

  and the girl in the corner who only spoke to the dog

  like a bona fide adult.

  She asked him, “What do you think, Petey?” like she planned

  to use the answer,

  or like she really just honestly wanted to know.