throw up your hands

laid down his instrument,and went home…..and yet his music livesin the hearts of those he moved,in the memories of those hehelped mold by human touch….in the prayers of those whose liveswere changed simply bycoming into contact with him….in the spirit of freedomgiving hope to those he left behind…no tears… he lives!

holy anger,the sparrow carvedfrom a dead tree.tongue burnt,the fist and the open hand…touching the skywith fingers in the dirt.kissing, brown leaves,smoke, an open window.death, and hunger,the glass broken,trembling hands….raw need, lips bleeding,hearts wrapped in wheels.thunder, the taste of lightning,and rain that never comes!

to slavery with a sword….and built freedom on this premise…on the backs of African-American slaves,and immigrants that fled oppression….now the actions of the pastare demanding their price!and the battle againwill be fierce and harsh!freedom isnt built on oppression!they’ll be no more herding,we are not cattle!

in tiny doings of the heart,and small kindnesses shared.we touch without thought,and think without feeling…but the orgasm of the spirit,is in the joining of hands!

only a few given a chance,the rest left to fend for theirselves!no jobs, unless you wanna soldier,kill or be killed for oil….then no jobs when you return,and no house to return to!food stamps and government aid,till that eventually runs out….then back on the streets where you started,kill or be killed to survive….dealing dope, dealing flesh,…

be there more truthin a picture of fruit….or a picture of the eyesof a starving child?be there more lovein an ancient picture of Jesus,or the picture of an addict,shaking on a stoop?be there more realityin numbed words carefully written,or in the story of the evicted family,penned in raw blood?be there more beautyin a picture of…