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Bloodletting
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Saul Williams
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1
The greatest Americans have not been born yet
2
They are waiting patiently for the past to die
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Please give blood
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Those crumbled tablets were to share a story with a burning bush
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Where is that voice from nowhere to remind us that the holy ground we walk on, purified by native blood, has rooted trees who's fallen leaves now color coat a savored list of demands
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Who among us can give translation of autumn hues to morning news?
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The anchorman thrown overboard has simply rooted us in histories repeating cycle.
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A nation in its saddened years that wont acknowledge karma
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Where is the voice from nowhere, the ones your prophets spoke of?
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There are voices from fear disconnected from their diaphragms, dangling from coffee covered teeth that spill into our laps and scorch our privates
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There are voices from the sides of necks, some already noosed, dangling participles pronouns running for sentence
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Serving life in corner offices and ghetto corners, their voices are the same
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Dead to themselves, numb to the possibility of truth existing beyond that which they can palm in their hands, period
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There are voices of elders, which seem to do no more than damn us to our childish ways
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For in many households, wisdom no longer comes with age
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So where is that voice from nowhere, that burning bush, that passing dove?
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I hear the voices of generals calling for ammunition, presidents calling for arms, women calling for help
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Where is that voice from nowhere, that god of Abraham?
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Can he be heard over the gunfire, the whiz of passing missiles, the crash of buildings, the cries of children, the crack of bones, the shriek of sirens?
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Or is that his mighty voice
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Your angry god craving the sacrifice of early generations sons degenerate
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Your holy books written in red ink on burning sands
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Your prayers between rounds do no more than fasten the fate of your children to the hammered truth of your trigger
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A truth that mushrooms its darkened cloud over the rest of us
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So that we too bear witness to the short lived fate of a civilization that worships a male god
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Your weapons are phallic, all of them
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That dummy that sits on your lap is no longer a worthwhile spectacle
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His shrunken pale face leaves little room for imagination
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We have spotted your moving lips and have pinned the voice to its proper source
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It is a source of madness
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It is a source of hunger, of power
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A source of weakness
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A source of evil
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We have exited your coliseum and are encircling your box-office, demanding our families back, our cultures back, our rituals back, our gods back, so that we may return them to their proper source
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The source of life, the source of creation, our mothers womb, the great goddess
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We will cut through the barbwire hangers and chastity belts
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We will climb in and incubate our spirits to the winter
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We will wait through the degenerate course of your repeated history
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We will wait for the past to die
Saul Williams - Black Stacey
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