Maelstrom

Piece by Clyfford Still - taken by me at the Clyfford Still Museum in Denver, CO.

- Poetry - 

​Some say the old ways have ceased working,
   but I argue
   they never did.
 
See, when a system raises one type of human,
   to be the standard bearer
   and all others to be less than,
   there’s nothing functional at play –
      just resentment
      institutionalized hatred
      ignorance birthing detriment
      a weary “us versus them”
Audre told me:
   “The master’s tools will never
      dismantle the master’s house.”
   And I am learning now
   that the master has had his slaves build a house
   with hammer
      and nail
         blood from the back
            sweat from the brow
   while he and the others sit in a room
      the air smoke-laden
      puffing power into plumes
      sipping on the extracted tears
      of silenced suffering,
         the sweat of fear,
            and the reality of stolen, harvested youth.
I am learning too
   that while patriarchs laud each other’s dicks
   marveling at their hammers
   and massive oil slicks
   applauding their status quo
   – calling it creative flow –
   I am learning that the master’s house
      is a highly combustible vat
      of lies built on lies
      scaffolded on a foundation of untruth
      and the artificial insemination
      of hatred and violent discrimination
      that has been forcibly injected
      over and over into new born babies
         into youth
      so that it might fertilize and grow
      into a thing that eviscerates
         a thing that murders
         a thing over which circle vultures and crows
 
The master’s house is built of straw
                                          of sticks
                                          of bricks
   and there is nothing about it
   that can stand against our blow.
For we do not come to dismantle with hammer backs,
   wood beams or stones.
We come with the hurricane
                        the wildfire
                        the weapons of Earth
                        the maelstroms of home.
And when our fires
                        and winds
                               and earthquakes combine
   the master’s house crumbles
   by its own pathetic design.
For the master at one point, too,
   had the force of nature in his hands
   but chose instead to build a palace
   that hoarded material resource
   that destroyed all surrounding land
   and which set into motion
   things inconceivable
   things too wild and mighty for any patriarch to command.
Where the straight, white, Christian male
   sees only an impending storm
   – a threat to their artificial norm –
   we see a reclaiming of earth
   brought upon the tsunamic tides of
                 beauty
                 difference
                 celebration
                 mirth.
We are not disastrous,
   but are natural wonders to behold
   and the only thing to which we are hazardous
   is the infection of the decrepit ideology of old.
We are not a force to be reckoned with,
   but a force that will swallow whole;
   one that is wet
   and furious
   swollen
   unabashedly curious
      and when our water breaks
      the planet will shudder and quake
      for what we give birth to
      is a power meant to undo;
              to render oppressors defeated
              to rescue the mistreated
              to usurp and unseat
              to offer respite and a retreat
              from the heavy, melting heat
              to shod bloody, blistered feet
              to disrupt history’s whitewashed repeat.
We have been labeled as monstrous,
   and by our powers combined we are beast,
   and with the birth of our child
      comes love
      and vitality
      and the bounty of a feast
      centered not on slaughtered meat
      but on the kaleidoscopic variance
         of the gifts
              the difference
              the connection
                    of human beings.