I am become the poet of resistance.
I write like a comet, a solar flare,
A sawed-off shotgun,
And where my words no longer suffice
Let them mingle with my blood,
Let the blood flow like freedom,
Let we who resist
Master the syntax of freedom,
And let the metaphors come alive
In hunger strikes, blockades,
Bodies chained to fences,
Votes in the voting booth
And clothing store
And bank account.

I am become the poet of resistance.
Let the flames of poetic truth
Flourish on the disgusting exhalations
Of men and women complicit in evil,
Burn down the air that feeds their evil.

Darkness has taken daylight hostage.
Darkness dark as a bottomless swamp,
Darkness dark as a death certificate’s ink;
No, I shall not sign Democracy’s demise!

But beware of those who prophesy!
Who threaten the unbelievers,
Who codify their beliefs in law,
In budgets, in gerrymandered dreams,
Who are the standard bearers of civility,
Who ask that our gory tombstones read,
We were polite until the end.

I am not polite. I am not civil.
I am older than these old white men,
I shall outlive their ignorance and laws,
For I am the poet of resistance:
It is our sacred duty to disobey,
One whip of disobedience that cracks
From the dawn of language
To the final grammatical flourish of time.

Written on Tuesday, June 26, 2018