Yesterday they stood grinning over the corpses of black men with illusions of immunity Speaking of patience, healing
Today with voices subdued they stumble as though half asleep with illusions of unity Speaking of patience, healing
They say how tragic it is that some police were killed in the line of duty And mumble about patriotism But this does nothing but amuse us, the oppressed, for we know They are the killers enforcers of white supremacy enforcers of poverty enforcers of misery
They speak of a race war when white supremacy comes under fire And speak of progress when black men are gunned down on camera
But we know All the SWAT teams and propaganda in the whole world cannot stop the onsetting storm.
We will grind this empire into dust with the names of the slain still on our tongues.
There are moments so small we are thought crazy for thinking they matter but their gravity warps our very Being with their passing.
How can I speak to the dead? Why bother speaking to the living?
Here, in this pile of graphite and wood dust I exist suspended between the two. There is the carcass of a lady bug that left me weeping. The world within a grain of coffee envelops me entirely. Do you know what it means to inch along the cold concrete floor through the cobwebs and urine? Do you think, really, the world is so small? I have spent years in a single puff of smoke.
It is so easy to get lost where a strand of hair meets the eraser shavings. Or to wander dazed in the scent of animal musk. Who encompasses all of this?
It is to the Source that I am falling.
The Truth They Cannot Kill
I don't pretend or expect to be understood. If that were my intent I would leave it at this:
Islam is the Truth. This society is falsehood. Lo! Falsehood is ever bound to vanish.
An Opening, Darkening
Beauty exists. Between the concrete and concertina even here balanced on a blade's edge suspended from a rope of hair-thin steel, the Finality of six walls.
(they yearn to smother us, but they only harden our resolve to grind their world into dust)
Beauty endures but there is a lesson buried beneath the beast's boot: We must learn to make our beauty light, to feed it nothing but raw essence for how else can we survive but to fling our hearts into the vast sky?
What can i offer across this void that thirsts endlessly What will be left as a gift beneath your eyelids? What is this Abyss that cannot be traversed even by ten thousand nights of weeping? It would be easier to enter Paradise than to give you of my self across this hungry void that swallows up my breath and evaporates all tears That turns ink into the absence of light, electric, And even my blood, however much i spill, cannot give you warmth.
And yet, dear it is to this void that you give countless precious hours When all around you children's eyes overflow with the light of God's Mercy And how many of us yearn for your affection As all of Creation bends in worship to the One, Who even now Harkens.
It is not too late.
-- -- -- --
"Ten Thousand Suns Are Blooming and We Will Not Go Blind"
-- All Glory is to God, Most Gracious, Most Merciful --
The people of the Book die eating bark and shoeleather in the blackened deserts, irrigated with their blood for to grow phantom buds blooming confusion.
Man-eating, child-molesting adulterous locust rain down a buzzing cacaphony of death upon smiling children sighing orphans praying mothers rejoicing believers . . .
The gutters are clogged with suicides and the alleys are awash with dream-chasers
Insects devour men and water is more precious than blood And some seem to think the taller their buildings the closer they are to God
And every time the sun sets it is as though God is telling all who may hear: Hasten unto Me, for the Hour is Near.
Surely, the dogs of hell have been unleashed They are pouring the foundations for the vile palaces of the Antichrist.
Enemies of God on every side throw fuel on the fire Burning the flesh of believers, even as they are condemned as infidels. Everywhere the blind have risen to power. Witness the signs, dear friends.
There can be no sense in reasoning with a hellhound And so, if God Wills it, my words are for those who have not yet cast their lot: Harken to the Supreme Guidance of God and His Messenger, Muhammad.
You cannot control the Storm. Not even a little. Do not lose yourself in that maddening Abyss.