I Am Michael Brown

Unarmed, going home.
Unarmed, reaching for the sky, like
every youth, dreaming.
Arms not now for hugs,
never again for greetings. Unarmed
heart that stops. Arms not now
for art nor sport, neither
climbing nor reaching. Merely
the end of the road. Of life.
Arms now for violence.
Arms for fear, for strangling
this stillborn world, struggling
to be born peacefully.
Arms for embracing, never again.
Arms that kill. That kill.
Arms that kill and kill
unarmed generations.
Armed to the teeth this police
state of confusion. Arms
wrestle with lies inside a squad car.
Finger squeezes trigger
squeezes lifeless nigger
unarmed. Again.
Pistol pointed, poised to execute
justice at arm's length.
Again. Goddamnit!
Not again!!

Music To Go Home To

For Julie Marston, in memoriam

Tears, moving.
Deep muddy rivers flow
through many histories
borne of love's nurture.
Some distant futures
unfold upon open
outstretched palms
like pearls in the world's
oyster. Earth is an altar
and children are candles.
Learning lights
their way. The way home
lined with smiles,
linked with hands clapped,
clasping this unbroken circle.
Music to go home to, when
burdens are laid down.
Music to go home to, when
tears flow away on jazzed notes
blowing away. Joyful sadness
as one more saint goes marching
in. To our hearts
inward. Outward in word
and deed. This is music
to go home to: all of us
singing in her name. Music for her
to go home to.
Finally.
In grace.
Gracias.