To: Felipe Luciano
Sent: Tuesday, September 22, 2009 3:19:54 PM
Subject: Re: NEW POEM
RE: New Poem. Oh, the pain of revolution--and what happened when it was over-as you say, when all our friends are dead or gone totally mad, and we stand alone naked in the mirror, at the horror of ourselves sometimes. My young colleague Ptah calls for Beligion, just be--and it is. m
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From: Felipe Luciano
To: Marvin X Jackmon
Sent: Tuesday, September 22, 2009 1:51:10 PM
Subject: NEW POEM
Marvin: Here's one I've been through. You'll understand.
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NEW POEM
Sometimes,
When I get away from the streets and dark dreams.
Just a stone’s throw from cars and crowds and sex,
I can see where I’ve chopped my feet.
There is something to this spirit thing.
You can walk in the altered moment
And f org et people look up to you because of the things you say.
Being is the hardest thing to do
If you don’t know who you are/ still
I spoke to one fat gentleman who’s chosen to be American.
And while they laugh at his buffoonery/pay him for his simple mimicry
Of dried out thoughts and Victorian sayings,
He has found his place.
He joined their army.
‘Cause they wouldn’t let him be a decent colored rebel.
And now me.
What do I do now that revolution is an old, dirty word
And struggle means the rent and how to pay for it.
I’ve been given loads of chances to be a good boy.
And were it not for prayer and some celestial love
I’d be dead or homeless.
I try to see me through this phase of lust and flesh and impulse,
Art/ it seems / is a worse profession than punching a clock
‘Cause there’s no one telling you…..STOP!
I’m passing through bohemian now.
Something I missed in ’68.
Didn’t take the time to live. I fought.
My moves don’t jibe with today’s morality
So……I embarrass myself a lot.
Stupid phone calls.
Crazy confessions
And going as far to the edge as Republicans will allow.
Abbie Hoffman killed himself.
Jerry Rubin’s a stockbroker.
Who was the real thinker?
Who was the real expression?
The fighters I knew and loved for real
Are dead
Or shot and shattered into being quiet.
Is there another way?
This spirit/quest is all I have now/ is all that’s left.
And I’ve gotta’ take it seriously/
Beyond the pleasant God bless you’s I utter.
I want to stay quiet now and not speak so much of God.
I never live up to my rhetoric
And somehow always try to sabotogue my rep
With those who love me and seek help.
I don’t have my own answers
Though I can read the riddles of life for everyone else.
I’ve been left without a platform.
Without a movement.
Without a mission.
There is only me.
And I chose to be here.
To finally deal with my demons.
Face my fears/ the terror/ inadequacies.
It’s this fear of newness that stops everything.
Whatever I’m going to be is/ must be totally different.
I love what Christ says.
Hang with me/ you become a new man/ from the inside.
I need new clothes.
I already see the tired droop of the jackets,
The fuzz on old sweaters/ the misshaped bent of shoes.
I’ll buy a new wardrobe/
One shirt at a time/ some pants.
I need new feelings.
I see the old behaviors/ the decrepit thought/
The decadent willfulness
And they’re beginning to look poor.
And smell like dead meat.
This metamorphasis feels like death.
Don’t’ know if I’m dying or changing/ it hurts.
I’m ready to give up and go God,
But, I don’t know the rules of this game.
Everytime I kneel though, the message is the same.
“Let me carry you through.”
Today.
In pain, in fear, embarrassed and confused,
I will.
Felipe Luciano-March 19, 1996
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