An eye for an eye.
Two lives:
One for the other.
An young Yeshivite,
Yankel Rosenbaum's.
For that of Gavin Cato,
a 7 year old black boy
in Crown Heights.
Struck and killed,
cousin, Angela, age 7,
injured at his side
by a Hasidic's car.
Careening out of control
like racism screaming through
the hot and sticky
New York City streets.
Another Bensonhurst.
And the Rev. Sharpton eulogizes:
No Justice,
No Peace.
As Holocaust survivor,
Brokha Estrin,
who lived through one nightmare
suddenly wakes up in another
and jumps to her death.
No Justice,
No Peace.
No Justice,
No Peace.
No
Justice...
Saturday, August 14, 2010
On Passing
Don't say passing
and expect me to
understand.
I won't.
Not because
I wouldn't have tried.
There were just
no in-between
tight rope worlds
to which to flee;
No one left to be.
Except
someone else's
outcast.
Or
the me I made myself
to be.
and expect me to
understand.
I won't.
Not because
I wouldn't have tried.
There were just
no in-between
tight rope worlds
to which to flee;
No one left to be.
Except
someone else's
outcast.
Or
the me I made myself
to be.
What if
What if
autism is a mistake?
Someone else's
mistake?
Ours;
not theirs.
What if
autism really is...
Flawed communication?
More ours
than theirs.
What if
the Truth
Suddenly
all came
gushing out
Like vinnegar spray
or electric shock
from a Sibis?
What if
they started handing out Nobels
For humanity's
inhumanity?
Who do you think
would win more?
Us or them?
What if
autism is a mistake?
Our mistake.
autism is a mistake?
Someone else's
mistake?
Ours;
not theirs.
What if
autism really is...
Flawed communication?
More ours
than theirs.
What if
the Truth
Suddenly
all came
gushing out
Like vinnegar spray
or electric shock
from a Sibis?
What if
they started handing out Nobels
For humanity's
inhumanity?
Who do you think
would win more?
Us or them?
What if
autism is a mistake?
Our mistake.
The choice
I cringed at Daryl's
translucent, blood stained skin
Then cringed again
at myself
Revilling deep inside
against what I thought I had buried
long ago.
Prejudice --
Fears and inadequacies
just under the surface.
full blown in my grimace.
A mirrored image.
A choice to be made.
translucent, blood stained skin
Then cringed again
at myself
Revilling deep inside
against what I thought I had buried
long ago.
Prejudice --
Fears and inadequacies
just under the surface.
full blown in my grimace.
A mirrored image.
A choice to be made.
1965
I remember you,
Mommy,
Singing warm
in the winter night.
Me,
snuggling, sleepy-eyed,
close as I could to you.
Driving with Daddy
in a red Ford pick up.
Always to or away from
the Crippled Kids' Hospital;
Another week's silence.
But then you'd always sing to me.
Beckoning my voice
to join yours in song.
Sweet song.
Mommy,
Singing warm
in the winter night.
Me,
snuggling, sleepy-eyed,
close as I could to you.
Driving with Daddy
in a red Ford pick up.
Always to or away from
the Crippled Kids' Hospital;
Another week's silence.
But then you'd always sing to me.
Beckoning my voice
to join yours in song.
Sweet song.
Unpopular Speech
There is something
in a voice --
Garbled.
Shrouded in a
cloak of incompetence.
Tongue-tied.
And, shackled
by others doubts.
That yearns;
Cries out.
No,
must demand to be
Heard.
in a voice --
Garbled.
Shrouded in a
cloak of incompetence.
Tongue-tied.
And, shackled
by others doubts.
That yearns;
Cries out.
No,
must demand to be
Heard.
Body Politics
What's more a part of
the American body politic?
More fragile?
Compelling
and violable?
Or,
apt to be suppressed?
Than a voice.
Screaming in silence.
the American body politic?
More fragile?
Compelling
and violable?
Or,
apt to be suppressed?
Than a voice.
Screaming in silence.
Gallant and Gaunt, Their Beauty
Look deep, deep into the eyes of my people:
Caged eyes,
Peering out through the bars of their sanitized,
steel-white cribs.
Do not try to evade their entrancing gaze
for it will not release you.
Look deep, deep into the eyes of my people.
Look deep, deep into the faces of my people:
Ageless but worn faces, scarred beyond the years.
Tenuously connected to bodies,
twisted and bent by gravity's pull and
years of lying supine.
Do not abandon those others coldly ignore:
Look deep, deep into the eyes of my people.
Look deep, deep into the hearts of my people:
Witness their horror, Witness their pain.
Horror and pain your spoken words
will never soothe.
Do not try to explain it away,
they will never believe you.
Look deep, deep into the eyes of my people.
Look deep, deep into the souls of my people:
Feel their soft, entrancing spirit.
A spirit, which time alone will never dim.
Look deep. Deep into the eyes of my people:
Gallant and gaunt, their beauty.
Beauty, your spoken words can never capture.
Caged eyes,
Peering out through the bars of their sanitized,
steel-white cribs.
Do not try to evade their entrancing gaze
for it will not release you.
Look deep, deep into the eyes of my people.
Look deep, deep into the faces of my people:
Ageless but worn faces, scarred beyond the years.
Tenuously connected to bodies,
twisted and bent by gravity's pull and
years of lying supine.
Do not abandon those others coldly ignore:
Look deep, deep into the eyes of my people.
Look deep, deep into the hearts of my people:
Witness their horror, Witness their pain.
Horror and pain your spoken words
will never soothe.
Do not try to explain it away,
they will never believe you.
Look deep, deep into the eyes of my people.
Look deep, deep into the souls of my people:
Feel their soft, entrancing spirit.
A spirit, which time alone will never dim.
Look deep. Deep into the eyes of my people:
Gallant and gaunt, their beauty.
Beauty, your spoken words can never capture.
Namesake
Who were you, Robert Williams,
namesake on the wall?
A black
polished tabla rosa.
How young were you
when they put you in the ground?
Who were you, Robert Williams?
Were you white, black, red
or brown?
Were you a volunteer or a draftee,
or just some young grunt
caught somewhere in between?
Who were you, Robert Williams?
How many days did you have left
on your tour the last time out?
Was there someone waiting on you
back in the States?
A Mom and a lover?
Did one call you, Bobby,
and the other always Bob?
Who were you, Robert Williams?
Did you ever really make out
what all the strife and struggle
was about?
Over Tet and Watts,
My Lai and Kent State,
Watergate and the Chicago 7?
And, did it ever really matter
anyhow?
Who were you, Robert Williams?
Where were you the day
JFK got shot?
And, better yet, where were
the rest of us the day
they put you in the ground?
Who were you, Robert Williams,
namesake on the wall?
A black
polished tabla rosa.
namesake on the wall?
A black
polished tabla rosa.
How young were you
when they put you in the ground?
Who were you, Robert Williams?
Were you white, black, red
or brown?
Were you a volunteer or a draftee,
or just some young grunt
caught somewhere in between?
Who were you, Robert Williams?
How many days did you have left
on your tour the last time out?
Was there someone waiting on you
back in the States?
A Mom and a lover?
Did one call you, Bobby,
and the other always Bob?
Who were you, Robert Williams?
Did you ever really make out
what all the strife and struggle
was about?
Over Tet and Watts,
My Lai and Kent State,
Watergate and the Chicago 7?
And, did it ever really matter
anyhow?
Who were you, Robert Williams?
Where were you the day
JFK got shot?
And, better yet, where were
the rest of us the day
they put you in the ground?
Who were you, Robert Williams,
namesake on the wall?
A black
polished tabla rosa.
The Wall (on the eve before its dedication)
It was made the worse by the floodlights.
Pillaring forth against the black night,
pallor white light shattering its silence;
Made the rain seem to come down in steady throngs,
pelting the already saturated grass,
It ricocheted like wild/fire on a lake.
* * *
JESUS CHRIST, Mike cursed
as we got not a third of the way
in from where the names
of the Dead & Missing had begun.
I started to let out a nervous laugh
but drew it back noticing her instead:
Standing apart/off to one side in the rain,
she preferred to mourn her losses alone;
Trying not to look too conspicuous
she stared not at the large marble edifice before us,
nor its endless columns of names,
or the wreaths and flags laid at its feet.
But, rather, at the man in the olive green tunic,
worn and faded with time;
in whose shadow she now stood.
His hands sunk deep inside his pants pockets
as he walked the full length of the wall
never pausing for more than an instant.
She trying to keep pace with his/
he scanned down the names as he went.
Acknowledging no one,
he'd move quickly from one stone to the next,
his hands sunk inside his pockets deeper still.
The woman and he now three feet away paused.
* * *
Coming into range now
the floodlights' glare blared down at us.
Its generator at full idle made it seem
as if the whole steel construct was about to take off,
like choppers in the night
in search of even more dead and wounded.
We tried to place ourselves
in a different time and space but couldn't.
Exasperated, I gave up;
breaking the silence between us –
"Most of them were younger than you and I are now," I murmured.
As Mike just stood there rain running across his brow
reading off the last name -- Jesse Calbre.
We finally reached the end,
though the walk back to the car
was no more the better for it;
Always thought that war memorials
like gravestones were meant for closure
perhaps in time/but for now . . .
We groped in silence for memories
never completely ours
and felt all the more empty for it.
I spotted them again walking to their car
and watched as he slid into the driver's seat
leaving her to open the passenger's side door
and close it tight behind her;
And, as they sped on into the dark,
I caught myself wondering
whether Jesse would ever be the last casualty
of the Indochina police action.
Or, just the last to have his name chiseled into stone.
Pillaring forth against the black night,
pallor white light shattering its silence;
Made the rain seem to come down in steady throngs,
pelting the already saturated grass,
It ricocheted like wild/fire on a lake.
* * *
JESUS CHRIST, Mike cursed
as we got not a third of the way
in from where the names
of the Dead & Missing had begun.
I started to let out a nervous laugh
but drew it back noticing her instead:
Standing apart/off to one side in the rain,
she preferred to mourn her losses alone;
Trying not to look too conspicuous
she stared not at the large marble edifice before us,
nor its endless columns of names,
or the wreaths and flags laid at its feet.
But, rather, at the man in the olive green tunic,
worn and faded with time;
in whose shadow she now stood.
His hands sunk deep inside his pants pockets
as he walked the full length of the wall
never pausing for more than an instant.
She trying to keep pace with his/
he scanned down the names as he went.
Acknowledging no one,
he'd move quickly from one stone to the next,
his hands sunk inside his pockets deeper still.
The woman and he now three feet away paused.
* * *
Coming into range now
the floodlights' glare blared down at us.
Its generator at full idle made it seem
as if the whole steel construct was about to take off,
like choppers in the night
in search of even more dead and wounded.
We tried to place ourselves
in a different time and space but couldn't.
Exasperated, I gave up;
breaking the silence between us –
"Most of them were younger than you and I are now," I murmured.
As Mike just stood there rain running across his brow
reading off the last name -- Jesse Calbre.
We finally reached the end,
though the walk back to the car
was no more the better for it;
Always thought that war memorials
like gravestones were meant for closure
perhaps in time/but for now . . .
We groped in silence for memories
never completely ours
and felt all the more empty for it.
I spotted them again walking to their car
and watched as he slid into the driver's seat
leaving her to open the passenger's side door
and close it tight behind her;
And, as they sped on into the dark,
I caught myself wondering
whether Jesse would ever be the last casualty
of the Indochina police action.
Or, just the last to have his name chiseled into stone.
Marathon Man
Johnny ran.
That was his problem.
He was what the staff called a runner
logical since he ran whenever he could
one minute they thought they had him three ways to Sunday tied to the bedpost with someone else's soiled sheets;
then they'd no sooner turn around and he'd be up to his Harry Houdini routine all over again.
Even the aides admitted he was pretty smart for being a retard;
all the rest of them would sit and rock.
But not Johnny,
he'd jump up dart this way and that.
then the next thing you know he'd find an open door or leap through a window
and he'd be clocking the mile on the institution's main drag at three-point-ninety-two like the long distant runner he longed to be.
They tried vinegar spray, four-point restraints, even leaden shoes.
Nothing slowed his free stride until they placed electrodes on his hide and shocked him.
Shocked him.
Now he's on the back ward
rocking to and fro.
To and fro.
To and fro...
That was his problem.
He was what the staff called a runner
logical since he ran whenever he could
one minute they thought they had him three ways to Sunday tied to the bedpost with someone else's soiled sheets;
then they'd no sooner turn around and he'd be up to his Harry Houdini routine all over again.
Even the aides admitted he was pretty smart for being a retard;
all the rest of them would sit and rock.
But not Johnny,
he'd jump up dart this way and that.
then the next thing you know he'd find an open door or leap through a window
and he'd be clocking the mile on the institution's main drag at three-point-ninety-two like the long distant runner he longed to be.
They tried vinegar spray, four-point restraints, even leaden shoes.
Nothing slowed his free stride until they placed electrodes on his hide and shocked him.
Shocked him.
Now he's on the back ward
rocking to and fro.
To and fro.
To and fro...
Hate By Any Other Name
Say retard
is not just another word for nigger?
Say it's not just another word for slut,
bitch or whore?
That it's not just another word for fag, spic or kike?
Say the sneers and jeers,
threats and broken bottles thrown our way
don't hurt like real sticks and stones?
Or like a swatiska spray painted
across a sacred temple wall?
Searing the soul like a burning cross in the night?
Say it's all child's play,
an innocent school boy's prank?
Say it's not hate?
say it's not the same?
Say those that traffic in it
ought to be cut a break?
And, I say, justice is no lie.
is not just another word for nigger?
Say it's not just another word for slut,
bitch or whore?
That it's not just another word for fag, spic or kike?
Say the sneers and jeers,
threats and broken bottles thrown our way
don't hurt like real sticks and stones?
Or like a swatiska spray painted
across a sacred temple wall?
Searing the soul like a burning cross in the night?
Say it's all child's play,
an innocent school boy's prank?
Say it's not hate?
say it's not the same?
Say those that traffic in it
ought to be cut a break?
And, I say, justice is no lie.
Flames of Akton 14
Germany, !990
Swatisikas burned into a teenager's skin;
another cripple spat upon,
silence, shame and suicide.
The dark, smoldering ashes of Akton 14
reignite.
Swatisikas burned into a teenager's skin;
another cripple spat upon,
silence, shame and suicide.
The dark, smoldering ashes of Akton 14
reignite.
Signs of Changing Times -- For Tom Harkin
For once
There was no
razor-pitched
shrillness.
No harangues.
No self-rightuous
demoguery.
No yielding to the next Senator
or to their latest whim.
Because for once
there was only silence.
The silence of truth.
Signspoken
on the Senate floor.
Brother to Brother,
across our nation.
Deep into its heartland.
He stood there tall:
Silent, firm and resolute
like another man of the prairie,
Painting a sign of changing times
A mosiac, a dream
of what some day
will yet be
A More Perfect Union,
abroad in our land.
Declaring,
in a bold, sweeping
symphony of arms,
hands, fingers and heart,
That with this day
and with this law
We were saying NO.
NO to exclusion.
NO to isolation.
NO to segregation.
NO to the
one true crippler:
Injustice in our land.
With his signs
and with his words
and with his tears,
He set us free.
Freeing our tears
from the back wards
of our hearts.
Tears
that streamed down
our faces freely,
proudly now.
Like
so much unwritten history
out onto a blank page.
Tears for dreams.
Dreams deferred;
Nightmares remembered;
Dreams, sweet dreams;
Dreams yet to be dreamt.
There was no
razor-pitched
shrillness.
No harangues.
No self-rightuous
demoguery.
No yielding to the next Senator
or to their latest whim.
Because for once
there was only silence.
The silence of truth.
Signspoken
on the Senate floor.
Brother to Brother,
across our nation.
Deep into its heartland.
He stood there tall:
Silent, firm and resolute
like another man of the prairie,
Painting a sign of changing times
A mosiac, a dream
of what some day
will yet be
A More Perfect Union,
abroad in our land.
Declaring,
in a bold, sweeping
symphony of arms,
hands, fingers and heart,
That with this day
and with this law
We were saying NO.
NO to exclusion.
NO to isolation.
NO to segregation.
NO to the
one true crippler:
Injustice in our land.
With his signs
and with his words
and with his tears,
He set us free.
Freeing our tears
from the back wards
of our hearts.
Tears
that streamed down
our faces freely,
proudly now.
Like
so much unwritten history
out onto a blank page.
Tears for dreams.
Dreams deferred;
Nightmares remembered;
Dreams, sweet dreams;
Dreams yet to be dreamt.
50 Years of No Special Reason
The day and hour had finally arrived.
This was to be the day
the consulting speech pathologist
was going to let us know when
Vi was finally going to get
Her augmentative communication system.
Anticipation
loomed like the hot sticky July air
which pervaded her unit cubicle
where we all had gathered to hear the news.
Five minutes
into his polite but rambling recitation though
it became apparent that the only news
he had for us that day been no news at all:
A glitch had developed here or there.
A microswitch had failed.
A proverbial monkey wrench
had been thrown into the works again.
Nothing new.
Proverbial monkey wrenches
always had a strange magnetic attraction
to Vi.
They seek her out
then boomerang
in God only knows
how many directions.
So it must have come as quite a surprise to him
when I asked how much longer it would take
to get back on track this time.
“Why?” he quizzically replied.
“Is there any special reason for all the rush?”
“No, no special reason.”
I said.
In a mute sigh
Only Vi could understand.
“No.
No special reason at all.”
“Except that she has had
50 years of no special reasons.”
This was to be the day
the consulting speech pathologist
was going to let us know when
Vi was finally going to get
Her augmentative communication system.
Anticipation
loomed like the hot sticky July air
which pervaded her unit cubicle
where we all had gathered to hear the news.
Five minutes
into his polite but rambling recitation though
it became apparent that the only news
he had for us that day been no news at all:
A glitch had developed here or there.
A microswitch had failed.
A proverbial monkey wrench
had been thrown into the works again.
Nothing new.
Proverbial monkey wrenches
always had a strange magnetic attraction
to Vi.
They seek her out
then boomerang
in God only knows
how many directions.
So it must have come as quite a surprise to him
when I asked how much longer it would take
to get back on track this time.
“Why?” he quizzically replied.
“Is there any special reason for all the rush?”
“No, no special reason.”
I said.
In a mute sigh
Only Vi could understand.
“No.
No special reason at all.”
“Except that she has had
50 years of no special reasons.”
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