He said that I writeWith a pen dipped in bloodBut I wonderIs it my bloodOr theirs?
I’m angryThat bring down whole buildingskinda angerThat cut people upkinda angerAnger that starts in your bellyWorks it way up into your heartAnd out your eyes like laserskinda angerMountains move at this type angerAnd whole societies are builtWith this kinda angerThis is that anger that yo mamaWarned you about.
My hands are soaked in goreFrom beating against this pavementTrying to dig holes in concreteWith nothing but nails and fingertipsSo that I can plant this precious seedOf rebellionGiven to me as a gift from thoseMothers that came before.Can you cultivate plants from stones?
The lines on my palms are cracked and hardCallouses rising to meet the scabrous sandpaper of daily livingA physical reminderOf memories and historiesThat have not passed.His death is as keenly felt todayAs it was 50 years agoOr yesterday.The latest felled treeIn a long line of deforested land.I will chain myself to my loverAnd bomb the logger’s machinesAnd shoot down the lumberjack himselfBefore they harm even a limbI still worry that won’t be enough.
The conversation is the same every timeA corrupted MP3On repeat for 400 yearsOnly nowWe debate over it’s very existenceDoes a colored queer actually rageIf there is anyone around to feel her?