by landon brooks
Dr. King stares down park where we have gathered
from a place non high
with flowers draped around his neck.
A statue, commodified and left to sit, forever still.
Occupation day 9, full of lust and confusion and coffee.
There is talk of “revolution”, but very little
to atone for such big words.
Some seek to have us all continue
begging the apparatus to behave.
As if we don’t tire from begging,
looking up to our masters with blood in our eyes,
a fire in our palms.
Somedays i feel the sidewalks under my feet,
the wind on my face and the burning hate for all this
surrounding me and suffocating me.
City hall is not reserved for us.
This system is not in place to benefit us.
It holds us all like a jealous father.
I have scraped my knees against my irresponsibility
and come clean with everything.
Naked with conviction, defiance, caffeine.
Two weeks ago I walked away
from a job and a lease and an entire way of living
that had me in shambles.
Today i wake up and walk here to this park,
where we have liberated this space.
Capital moans and groans with childish fear.
Here, when the sun goes down,
enthusiastic youth march through downtown streets
tearing their throats apart screaming,
feeling all this hope.
Yet, the spectre of pacified reform is haunting:
some pathetic spirit made of dust,
talking pretty to politicians.
My heart is full of rage and piss.
I am weary of talk, small, petty talk. A fuckin’ rabble.
We need sidewalks not overtaken by workday feet,
but empty
because we’re all in the streets.
Pensacola is ours.
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