this is what happened.
it's late, too late, we should all know better
than to be out here now: we
are all up too late, now, you hear?
for the signs, and the words, and the voices
that build on each other
like towers of anger, and strength.
but we're sitting now, outside the station.
we walked there
and we weren't walking back.
and i, in my smog, in my smoke, with my heart in my throat
began the words of the song.

it's been weeks we've been fighting,
for land and for space, for the right to speak
and be heard: weeks of
lectures on nonviolence, fights about peace,
losing our center and losing ground.
we have built, and rebuilt, and torn down, and rebuilt
relationships in ten thousand ways
to form up this group
that walked a long way with candles
and cocoa and raised voices.

this is what happened.
a mother, her children, their porch light
the lone spot in a block of dark houses;
a lost job, a missed payment,
now they are processing her eviction
and the sheriff will come
in the morning.
late by three days, she says;
late by three days. we've walked here,
and we're not walking back.
and i, with my body, with my blood, with strength like a flood
began the words of the song.

this is what happened:
when they came, we were standing
in a circle in the yard. there were neighbors
and a shared space to speak.
we were listening, and hearing, and
hot drinks were going from hand to hand.
when they came, we were standing
and when they pushed through the circle
standing became walking, became arms
linked in arms. we walked here,
and we're not walking back.
when riot gear met smiling mouths,
when clubs met flushed cheeks and mittened hands,
this is what happened.
and i, in my haze, in my fear, when their meaning was clear,
began the words of the song.

ain't gonna let nobody turn me around.
turn me around.
turn me around.
ain't gonna let nobody turn me around.
i'm gonna keep on walking
keep on talking
marching up to freedom land.

i can be as broken as i want to be-- as hopeless,
lustless, lifeless as i want to be-- but only alone, see,
since there is no one in the world for you but
her. what am i, wasted time dripping off the cliff's edge,
a tired raven perched above your chamber door,
the tired, stupid king whose weakness makes its own decisions.
i am at least tired, stupid, wishing i could be as
wasted as i feel. i can be as wasted as i want to be,
but only behind closed doors. in the world, i will--
i will because i want, because i retain power
and agency and will even when i lack you--
i will show a whole face, a strong spine, an open smile,
while millions of miles away you are bathed in her starlight,
in the open wound of her love and the gore
that is a new heart opening up to you. i am reduced
to a ghost in the hallway, wringing her hands because the blood
won't come out. my lungs, concrete and marred with breath,
drop out of my rib cage gradually, tearing away
from the constrictions of the diaphragm: with each exhale
they drop an inch lower, tearing away from my mouth.
when next your light breaks, i will-- because i lack everything
now except will-- be smiling, and appear whole.

in my home under the earth, i am free to stretch out,
lithe and lean against the weight of magnetic dirt.
above ground i am ponderous, lecherous,
willingly glowing with imbibed sunshine and oxygen while
my thin skin aches for the coolness and the comforting closeness
of home. underground, coherent and covered,
i manage articulation: i structure, and analyze, and rectify.
i am entirely carbon, solidly sedimentary,
and the erogeny of erosion is no match for my layers.
though the flow of your words slides around my body,
trickling in at the edges of my consciousness
and sidling in between my fingers and my lips,
a gentle kiss sluicing along the lengths of my legs,
i am not borne away: i am grounded, resistant,
and i am not ashamed of my deep, deep roots.