A comrade lives forever.

For though the body may decay,

The bond cannot be severed.

A comrade never fails to breathe;

Their voice is ours, unbroken.

Their struggle and their surety,

They live through words they’ve spoken.

A comrade’s earthly reach extends

Beyond their mortal tether.

A comrade never dies, my friends,

For struggle lasts forever.

1.
The Earth has kept on traveling round the Sun
Since the day it shook and pulled them down.
Down
Down
Down
Everything fell:
Shacks and church pews smashed through sewers
Palace collapsed – an empty shell.
Three hundred thousand 
(counted, fewer;
Thousands buried, never found).

The whole world ruptured. 
Catacombs
Unleashing walled-up winds of hell.

La Terre Tremblé. 

2.
Will we forget what that shaking ground
Revealed for all to see, who cared to look?
The way the streets filled up with bloated bodies?
The way the troops drove on, and let them cook?
The “Aid” delayed, as if for fear of zombies
rising from their rubble graves to run –
White eyes blazing bloody memories
of how white masters came and took by gun?

And yet, and yet, 
poor Haitians did not riot;            
worked to pull each other from the ruins.
Carried those who died, 
and those who wouldn’t,
for a while,
And those who lived.
Gave until they had no more to give.

(Meanwhile,
“Security,” guns in hand;
Stand in for gates that no longer can,
Protecting property of those in command.) 

3.
A sudden eruption
of broken heart blisters
oozing dry on Live TV
far flung news anchors aim 
for the ripe wound,
peeling it back, 
letting us see
seeking the perfect angle to capture that 
“inexplicable-horror-of-it-all,”
(just a dash of sugared hope thrown in for the folks at home)
that sweet spot 
where the latex glove meets the bandage meets the hand meets the ballot box
meets the sky--
Where it hurts to look. 
And makes you cry           
(But never lets you find out How or Why).

From such fastened hooks
America hangs
Prepared to unleash its charity thang.
Solemn celebrities claim center stage:
And all who are seated are moved.

Millions shut their eyes in prayer
(secretly thankful that they’re not there)
Ready to do what good people should: 
for a minute, an hour, or even a week.                

         But never letting the Haitians speak.

What do the people there have to say?
When looking at US, what do they see?    

Who will dare to take a peek today?

         Caught in the sun, the pocked eye turns away.
         How much can the blinded stand to see?

         Band-aids slap where barricades should be.

4.
Worldwide
They say there are a dozen cities
With at least a million people each
Lying, waiting, sleeping on a fault line
(Slum-dweller flesh to feed the breach).
For each year, the Earth, it shivers
In the endless cold of space,
Quakes and quivers, 
like an ox
whose skin 
must knock flies from its face.

The fault is not the moving Earth’s– 
We know that quakes will come, and even where –

At fault:
a world-wide class affliction
Razing mounds of contradiction:
Bubbling boils that bust through skin,
Seeping hot pus, sweat and blood – and liquid gold
That trickles up to rulers’ lips ice cold.
Parasites suck membranes thin:
Vulture claws cleave crater-trails,
Until all precious flesh 
is drawn in scabs and scars 
to fit the scales.

(Heed the bankers’ dark command:                      
Plow the farmers off the land.                       
Build estates on bone and sand.                      
Spill the poor in pavement cracks.               
Stitch the workers into seams                
Of rulers’ cloaks– Breaking their backs –letting them choke   --gasping for air –
stripping them down to their dreams,                                   
then bare.)

The earth, we know, 
will quiver.
The brittled surface, 
tear.

5.
This predator plague has no plan
for poor people,
except for the juice to be squeezed 
from their veins
             To quench its viral thirst.
             Markets pressure 
                         and hearts burst.

So long as endless profit reigns.

(The heads of state remain aloof:
              Crisis = opportunity, after all.
Helicopter blades give the world a roof.
             And there’s plenty of sweat to catch, 
                         as they 
                         fall.) 

6.

Outside Port au Prince:
Refugee Cities –
             Rain-soaked sheets
             Flap on and on,
                          But only the bugs and bats can
                          fly.

The people, gathering: 
                          Grasp at Why.

        Peering eyes out fraying holes;
        Fingers point:  
                                   jetliners tearing the sky.

Aboard corporate planes:
              Thirsty agents
              Ties loosened,
                           Clinking drinks in hand,
              Toast to a future 
                                       for which they’ve signed.

              Traveling home,
                          to milder climes:
If they look down                 
            through parting clouds–
                                     see only some
dirty laundry lines.


(Originally written in January, 2011.  Updated August. 2022)

Some say it begins from within
Some say it has already begun
Some say wait upon conditions
Some say inevitable
Some say impossible
Some say it is a process not an event
Some carry signs
Some sign petitions
Some block politicians
Some back politicians
Some become politicians
And I have seen 
Academic’s metaphysics 
Swallow reality 
Then spit back a peer reviewed tenure track salary 
And I have seen 
The organizers of labor 
Embrace parties of capital 
And I have seen age old cowardice 
Dishonesty, careerism 
Parade as groundbreakingly new 
And I have seen courage 
Burst into spontaneous flame
And I have seen fear in the pig’s eye   
And I have seen rebellions 
Light the night sky 
Then fade to smoke 
 
Some speak against the need 
For political education
Some speak against the need 
For party structure and discipline    
But I know 
Without theory 
History does not move
And I know 
Once the line is set 
Organization is key 

That there are decades 
For the taking 
To be wrenched from weeks
That we cannot wait upon impossible
That none can do it alone  
That everyday we must work to make 
Victory inevitable
That if we wish to see 
Revolution
Within our lifetimes 
We must   
Organize 
Organize 
Organize

August 15, 2022

“I’m sorry,” said the captain
After killing your wife
Upon maiming your children
And wrecking your life.

“I’m sorry,” he said,
“The missile, it missed,”
Then took a step back
when he saw your clenched fist.

“That damn missile went left
when it should have gone right
–It’s so hard to see straight
in the middle of the night.”

“Please know this: America
does not want you dead…
“That missile was meant
for your neighbors instead.”