^{Dedicated to the Poet Agostinho Neto,
President of The People’s Republic of Angola: 1976}

1
I will no longer lightly walk behind
a one of you who fear me:
                                     Be afraid.
I plan to give you reasons for your jumpy fits
and facial tics
I will not walk politely on the pavements anymore
and this is dedicated in particular
to those who hear my footsteps
or the insubstantial rattling of my grocery
cart
then turn around
see me
and hurry on
away from this impressive terror I must be:
I plan to blossom bloody on an afternoon
surrounded by my comrades singing
terrible revenge in merciless
accelerating
rhythms
But
I have watched a blind man studying his face.
I have set the table in the evening and sat down
to eat the news.
Regularly
I have gone to sleep.
There is no one to forgive me.
The dead do not give a damn.
I live like a lover
who drops her dime into the phone
just as the subway shakes into the station
wasting her message
canceling the question of her call:
fulminating or forgetful but late
and always after the fact that could save or 
condemn me

I must become the action of my fate.

2
How many of my brothers and my sisters
will they kill
before I teach myself
retaliation?
Shall we pick a number? 
South Africa for instance:
do we agree that more than ten thousand
in less than a year but that less than
five thousand slaughtered in more than six
months will
WHAT IS THE MATTER WITH ME?

I must become a menace to my enemies.

3
And if I 
if I ever let you slide
who should be extirpated from my universe
who should be cauterized from earth
completely
(lawandorder jerkoffs of the first the
                   terrorist degree)
then let my body fail my soul
in its bedeviled lecheries

And if I 
if I ever let love go
because the hatred and the whisperings
become a phantom dictate I o-
bey in lieu of impulse and realities
(the blossoming flamingos of my
                   wild mimosa trees)
then let love freeze me
out.
I must become
I must become a menace to my enemies.

I want to write poems for construction workers and dreamers
For revolutionaries
For deadbeats and those on the low
I never want to ask please fix us all
I want for us to want
to patch every heart
and pave every road
and destroy every system
that has ever left us
broken. I want to sing
like frank ocean, like wonder
like sonder, like mereba, like the sea
I want to recite the line
Took the wretched out the earth
Called it baby fanon,
I want to call someone baby.
I want to stop smoking because I want to live,
I can only love my comrades if I live,
and I want to clean my room,
I want to clean my room every week
and make my bed and put peppermint in my hair
to stop needing my inhalers
and to inhale solidarity, and to eat the rich,
I want to eat the rich, to cancel the rents,
to know my neighbors
and to know my neighbors
are safe. I want to move like water, to move
from unity to struggle to unity,
to have no perfect world we haven’t fought for.

You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I’ll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
’Cause I walk like I’ve got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.
Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I’ll rise.

Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops,
Weakened by my soulful cries?

Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don’t you take it awful hard
’Cause I laugh like I’ve got gold mines
Diggin’ in my own backyard.

You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I’ll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I’ve got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?

Out of the huts of history’s shame
I rise
Up from a past that’s rooted in pain
I rise
I’m a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.

Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that’s wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise.

I look at the world

From awakening eyes in a black face —

And this is what I see:

This fenced-off narrow space

Assigned to me.



I look then at the silly walls

Through dark eyes in a dark face —

And this is what I know:

That all these walls oppression builds

Will have to go!



I look at my own body

With eyes no longer blind —

And I see that my own hands can make

The world that’s in my mind.

Then let us hurry, comrades,

The road to find.

The dead do
     what they want
which is nothing—

sit there, mantled,
     or made real
by photographs

in silver frames,
     or less real
by our many ministrations.

Dusting. Bleach. The world
     swept, ordered,
seemingly unending.

The dead, listless,
     lazy, grow tired
& turn off the TV—

or like a father passed
     out in an easy chair
during the evening news

      what’s watched now
does the watching.

One can find only peace in the sea.

I don’t agree. I think of migrants when I hear the sea. Is my anger justified?
A window, not eyes, overpours. Love of the world. Lonely and often fooled.
Occupied by health insurance and visas. Please, please recover. I thought I’d healed
her death but here I am, waiting.

Sink into memory of happy and together, which is a self looking back and taking
out of context the bright feelings.

Move forward into embrace. Loneliness moving with.
I was thinking of you (the word) and how it accompanies. But how too it can imply
distance—moments behind the eyes, fading planets, how people hold differently
the changing sentences and truths of being.

How in my late 20s I planned on traveling to a lover in another country but realized
the night before, my passport had already expired. I couldn’t take the pain of the
border, the disclosure of not being a citizen. Of being so in love I would have risked
detainment.

Something close to 2 p.m. now but really it’s later in some place I’ve never been.

what the birds know is the way home

it begins with a door that cannot find its own name

the bird who stitches together the last sky must sing the name into existence

and the door opens into the burning of the world

through the door we find each other

and in the wholeness the birds

collective rupture into species being

the last sky world burn sings itself into our feet

soles imbued with prophecy of dirt

good lord last sky world burn there is something beyond you

the birds are taking us to find it

you are singing the door open for us

and through it streams the flood of the people

the feet of the flood of the people burn the world as they run

the last sky world burn is desperate to open the door for us

there are birds making treaties with the sky to facilitate its arrival

there are feet conspiring with the land to ensure the world burn is total

last sky will empty itself of airplanes and war jets to make room for our spirits

the last sky world burn is a sketch of a coming dream

it is our duty to believe in its inevitable birth

the last sky world burn asks a question

it is our responsibility to make the answer

of that old feeling of being
in love, such a rusty
feeling, rusty,

functionless
toy. In odd

sequential dreams
I can still love.
Love in the old way.

Here is a sweet lozenge.
Here is some broth,

on whose surface
I have floated
edible flowers.

I can feel the old feeling
where I used to feel it,

in my chest. 
In the dream I feel it,
but when I wake

the feeling is gone.
There isn’t a word

for the feeling that replaces it.
Not numbness or emptiness.
It is a nameless feeling.

Racy in its own way.
A racy new toy.