dusk in atlanta
the natives lay back down,
returning to encumbered slumber,
after a sudden, hollow vacation
from grassy parks and peaceful nooks
prompted by the unwarranted eviction
for square tents named justice and democracy
that disappeared as if industrial smoke–
a mirage of rainbows, beats and voices–
where folks briefly assembled
from across the land
said in their name,
“we must end poverty,
we must end injustice!”
relaxing in thirty-second floor rooms
and sitting in workshops
with ice cold water pitchers
and brains stationed back home,
yet here,
all around
there are families
sitting upright in shelter lobby chairs,
children contorted on mother’s lap
while the laws of the rich snicker,
deny woman the need
for respite from the cold.
energy and smiles abound
below sycophantic minds
citing short stays, self-imposed impotence
while walking past a curled up human
scavenging for shade under sycamores—
in too many eyes
blending in with the shadow.
what mother allows her children to grow up on the streets?
in these shelter lobbies?
put on those bootstraps,
apply oneself,
the American dream, an uplifting movie
where the guy who lost everything fights hard to get the job,
almost loses his kids to the state,
but perseveres without stealing, maintaining morals, morale.
film’s veneer, each opaque promise
destroyed in the rhetorical heat
of the political projector.
the same mother who was orphaned at five,
the same who was forced to prostitute
herself to survive Reagan,
the same whose mother was evicted
from public housing for private development,
the same whose mother died at home from a preventable disease,
the same whose mother spent their life savings to migrate
north with the promises: better, fairer treatment, wages
the same whose debts from the sharecropping slave system
forced the family into urban slums,
the same mother widowed by her husband’s lynching,
the same whose mother was denied 40 acres and a mule,
and the traitorous use of the 14th amendment to give
corporations individual protection still owed minorities,
the same mother whose voice rendered silent, visibility a shadow
with the dismantling of 1877 and the taking off of the crow,
the same mother who tried to escape thru the railroad
only to be snuffed out by dogs as if she were one,
the same mother, resilient in spirit
passing along African traditions
of song & dance
before they slipped from collective memory,
who faintly remembers her parents
on a wooden platform,
kiss her and hug her, embracing her as tightly as possible,
as thick translucent skins tore the family
north, south, west.
words cannot be the only course
people cannot wait
people look and feel and are broken
yet people survive
in systems where equality flows
like water at the bottom of a shallow well
in sight, but not touching one’s lips
where the bucket ripped from one’s hands
by a white master
prevents quenching a thirst
rightfully due
to all of black or brown or reddish hue.
when those tents and faces and speeches return
people will still be wrapped in blankets
creating a safe space
where they don’t have to see
all of the hypocrisy.
be united–
fight for justice–
let tents descend on space sensitive,
resolving to prove that presence practices
the same solidarity it speaks.
atlanta,
we came and left much trash & doubt
why did we come but to
shake your hand,
listen, talk,
break bread,
shut down afflictions
overcome divisions
you, the mother of all of us,
the children
of all
of us.
–july 3 2007
in the aftermath of the united states social forum. i stayed for three extra days in atlanta and walked through downtown, the mlk historic district and little five points neighborhood.
