En själ som vill
Reading Time: 2 minutesPoeten, musikern och skådespelaren Saul Williams, har länge fångat upp mig i tankar. Nu senast skrev han om sin resa till Jerusalem, vilket var oerhört intressant att läsa.
- The greatest Americans
have not been born yet.
They are waiting patiently
for the past to die.
Please give blood
Those crumbled tablets were to share a story with a burning Bush.
Where is that voice from nowhere to remind us that the holy ground we walk on
purified by native blood, has rooted trees whose fallen leaves
now color-code a sacred list of demands?
Who among us can give translation of autumn hues to morning news?
The anchorman
thrown overboard
has simply rooted us
in histories repeating cycle:
A nation in its Saturn years
that won’t acknowledge karma.
Where is that voice from nowhere?
-the ones your prophets spoke of?
For I hear voices of fear disconnected from their diaphragms
dangling from coffee covered teeth- that spill into our laps
and scorch our privates.
There are voices from the sides of necks, some already noosed
dangling participles pronouns running for sentence, serving life
in corner offices and ghetto corners. Their voices are the same
dead to themselves, numb to the possibility of truth existing beyond that
which they can palm in their hands, period.
There are voices of elders
which seem to do no more
than damn us to our childish ways
for, in many households, wisdom
no longer comes with age.
So where is that voice from nowhere?
-that burning bush?
-that passing dove?
I hear the voices of generals calling for ammunition
presidents calling for arms and women calling for help.
Where is that voice from nowhere?
-that god of Abraham?
Can He be heard over the gunfire?
-the whiz of passing missiles?
-the crash of buildings?
-the cries of children?
-the crack of bones?
-the shriek of sirens?
Or is that his mighty voice?
Your angry god craving the sacrifice of early generations sons degenerate.
Your holy books written in red ink on burning sands.
Your prayers between rounds do no more than fasten the fate of your children
to the hammered truth of your trigger.
A truth that mushrooms its darkened cloud over the rest of us
so that we too bear witness to the short lived fate of a civilization
that worships a male god.
Your weapons are phallic, all of them.
That dummy that sits on your lap is no longer a worthwhile spectacle.
His shrunken pale face leaves little room for imagination.
We have spotted your moving lips and have pinned the voice to its proper source:
it is a source of madness
it is a source of hunger for power
a source of weakness
a source of evil.
We are exiting your coliseum and are encircling your box-office
demanding our families back, our cultures back, our rituals back, our gods back
so that we may return them to their proper source: the source of life
the source of creation: our mothers’ womb; the Great Goddess.
We will cut through the barbwire hangers and chastity belts.
We will climb in and incubate our spirits to the winter.
We will wait through the degenerate course of your repeated history.
We will wait
for the past
to die.