A friend texted to say it’s irresponsible to protest during a pandemic. All those people
crowded together become vectors for the virus, which doesn’t care about race. I hadn’t
thought of Covid-19 as post-racial, the enlightened bug.
To write is to argue without evidence that beauty
pervades: the rainforest and the killing field,
sunsets and floods of acid rain on I-95.
It does not matter who lit the flame
That burned the Reichstag down,
Only that it burned and so few
Considered what cremation means
To those who long for proper burial.
This is an oversimplification, but one way to think about the Civil Rights Movement, especially from the mid-to-late 1960s, is that there were two philosophical approaches: Dr. King’s faith-based, inclusive, nonviolent strategy; and Malcom X’s Black Power, “the bullet or the ballot,” movement.
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,
If you’re reading this I assume you don’t need to be convinced that Trump’s policy of separating children from their parents and throwing them into “detention centers” is an abomination, a violation of human rights, and further proof that his administration
America is the land
That without irony
Sells both the cigarette
And the nicotine patch.
It was late and the insomniac moon
Played cold music in my ears,
A seashell hum foot-tapping
To the beat of toss-turning dreams.
Dear “Mr. President,” I have learned so much from you during your brief stint as “president” that I cannot help but write to enumerate the ways and to thank you for them, and I would be remiss if I didn’t start […]
The first step to tyranny is blame
Laced with fear:
Immigrants, minorities, The Other—
All who stand between the masses
And the glory of yesteryear,
When all was simple and all were tame.