under the blade

the woman raped, the young man killed.i am the body hanging alone and cold,the old woman shaking in an empty room.i am the young girl taken and enslaved,the needle, the spoon, and the revolver.i am black skinned, brown skinned anger,and the bones of bodies hidden…the speaker of truth detained and tortured,the invisible trail left behind.i…

on the stoop. talking…about old times, jobs,women, and life….changing the stringson a battered old Gibson…the old dog just happyto lie at their feet….the sound of bacon frying,the clatter of pots and pans….a hawk soaring in circlesover the fields turned brown…a couple of songs,a few flakes of snow….a beer and a shot,as time draws short!

where the last birds go to rest,and prepare for their journey.where the sound of the creekis all that’s heard,except for crickets and chattering squirrels.the occasional cry of the butterfly expiring,and the pines weeping for lost lovers.following the trail of the ants,and the pawprints of the wolves,we lie beneath nests left empty.naked and close, not speaking…

and Dylan rhymed with angst.while Woody fought the fascists,and hopped the midnight train.Martin spoke for equality,unafraid of bullets and chains…and the Kent State students,stood against unholy war.mowed down by their own people,yet nobody’s keeping score.now time immemorial,calls both the child and man.for dignity and humanity,to rise and take a stand.to hold the truth of open…

causing the candle to flicker,the curtains to walk?could it be the wind,making shapes of shadow?and that long shaking moanyou feel in your bones?the wind that whispersin voices almost remembered.that tugs at the doorto your forbidden room?that taste of blacknessfrom an empty cup?could it be the wind,or something more?

…..into violent rebellion,is to attempt…to violently suppress it!every action..creates a like action…the surest way…to make freedom stand up……and fight,is to fight against it!you cannot put out a fire……with gasoline!you’d think they would figure this out!