Knock on History’s Door
All too often, people defer to ever speak on this story.
It can be toxic to even think of.
But meaning cannot be numb
and just creep to fly away.
And history has more sustenance for meaning
than found in Rorschach clouds
knocking about all day long under a sun’s play.
It is to be passed on
and passed down.
History deserves to belong to all those
who continue to hear,
as they become aware.
And not be deceived by pieces of language
which cast only indifferent, hooded eyes
over a shoulder to nowhere.
It can have a piercing eye.
And it has a voice.
But must it scream?
To put it in a vulgar way,
a lie,
once executed,
screams for attention to blurred out faces
in a mob mass.
And one lie leads to another.
At times,
rail against the tales
and never rest between written lines.
Shame ingests to misshape reality.
Makes it be chewed and torn off from its remit.
Can you just say “no”
to those who would be devils
and then keep your fingers crossed?
After all,
deceivers insist on devotion
to their handiwork.
Recognize the only reason
these things were cast this way,
was to make you give up.
By those who cannot bear
to mutter the words “share”.
By those born to rights they never earned,
who are not as strong as they imagine.
Oh, how this light has been refracted,
shading sable views.
Oh, how blanched henchmen concealed themselves
in both structure and process with soiled secrets.
Know these things are done
to bring down weakness upon.
The good news,
let it be said,
is descent is not forever.
Although you cannot see the bird,
cannot you still hear it sing?
Is battle to the death the only way to earn honor?
You must swing your pencil stick lustfully
to regain hard-won territory
stolen by denials.
Rather,
many should be given a turn with pen.
Pen and paper,
and anything else beautiful.
This comes so close to real answers
you smell the body sweat
and swelter in the heat.
So, we skim stones across a water’s surface
to show the way,
and where to step,
to find majestic pearls under shallow shells.
They contain lustrous ideas
which have their own flecks of light.
And I always feel the need to slide to the side,
that it may gracefully pass,
like the infinite patience found in water
as it erodes its fantastical way down to a true sea.
You must not let yourself be
captive by shrinking from the ideas
contained in your last mistake.
You must set your own place
at the table.
You must salvage source integrity
because though it was a long time ago,
it was still a real thing.
History—stilted history—
is there any other place
where the thief
becomes greater than the loot?
Fugitive words, now stir the wind.
Myths leave deep their mark.
Don’t worry. Its gonna be alright.
Don’t worry.
You and I are community, and we abide.