Saul Williams Read online

angst driven insecure

  a country in puberty

  a country at war

  wet dreams

  cotton mouth

  blood thirsty

  oily hair

  fast cars

  movie stars

  earn 20 mill…

  to instill fear

  she and i never spoke. we were in relationships we shouldn’t have been in. we were sorcerers who had stored their charms in unmarked boxes because they had made our partners uncomfortable. every day, we reported to work early in order to rest our waking eyes on last nights dream. i had resorted to sleeping with my back to my partner. the ball i slept curled in became the question mark i now placed within all prior commitments. this was no teenage crush. it was an adulthood rite. she was what love had grown up to be: unspoken, yet shared between us.

  on that glorious day, i stood before my cubicle shuffling papers like a card reader with an oversized deck. the one on top read, “invoice”, as something within told me to turn around. she walked the aisle towards me perhaps on the same undisclosed mission that now leads me towards her, only neither of us was confident enough to slow our pace as we approached the other. we brushed shoulders moments before the first explosion. we, both, stopped, turned back and stared at each other as if shocked that the outside world might bring to life our inner workings.

  here is our first touch

  and here is this trembling building

  hold the two in your hands

  and tell me what you come up with

  everyone running to windows to see what has happened, as smiles slowly rise on our faces like the time between 6:24 and 6:39 over the skyline. we are not panicked, only awed at how a fluttering stomach can predict the short life span of a social butterfly. love has become a fiery place. but we are living in an old testament where there is a faith that does not burn, that turns kings into believers.

  i believe that those were my exact thoughts before extending my hand, just as she did hers. and as we walked into the grasp of the other, a second explosion. we smiled, knowingly, like scientists witnessing the primordial origins of chemistry. and down that burning aisle where glass had been strewn like rice we decided to jump the broom, walking off into the will of the divine wind {
  she held my hand

  leaving three fingers

  in my grasp

  like gripping a symbol

  from the i ching

  which i’m not sure

  i’ve ever grasped

  o my friends,

  the greatest americans

  have not been born yet

  they are waiting patiently

  for the past

  to die

  please

  give

  blood

  those crumbled tablets

  were to share a story

  with a burning Bush

  where is that voice from nowhere

  to remind us

  that the holy ground

  we walk on

  purified by native blood

  has rooted trees

  whose fallen leaves

  now color code

  a sacred list of demands?

  who among us can give translation

  of autumn hues to morning news?

  the anchor man

  thrown overboard

  has simply rooted us

  in history’s repeating cycle

  a nation in its saturn years

  that won’t acknowledge karma

  where is that voice

  from nowhere?

  the one your prophets spoke of?

  there are voices from fear

  disconnected from their diaphragms

  dangling from coffee covered teeth

  that spill into our laps

  and burn our privates

  there are voices

  from the sides of necks

  some already noosed

  dangling participles

  pronouns running

  for sentence

  serving life

  in corner offices

  and ghetto corners

  their voices are the same:

  dead to themselves

  numb to the possibility

  of truth existing beyond

  that which they can palm

  in the bleeding hole

  of their hands,

  period.

  there are voices of elders

  who seem to do no more

  than damn us

  to our childish ways

  for in many households

  wisdom

  no longer comes with age

  so where is that voice from nowhere?

  that burning bush?

  that passing dove?

  I hear voices of generals

  calling for ammunition

  voices of presidents

  calling for arms

  voices of women

  calling for help

  but where is that voice

  from nowhere?

  that God of abraham?

  those crying rocks?

  can he be heard over the gunfire

  the whizz of passing missles

  the crash of buildings

  the cries of children

  the crack of bones

  the shriek of sirens?

  or is that his mighty voice?

  your angry god

  craving the sacrifice

  of a virgin generation’s

  son degenerate

  your holy books:

  written in red ink

  on burning sands

  (…branded into necks, whipped into backs, forced inside of vaginas and anuses, crammed into mouths, rubbed into open sores…)

  your prayers

  between rounds

  do no more

  than fasten the fate

  of your children

  to the hammered truth

  of your trigger

  a truth that mushrooms

  its darkened cloud

  over the rest of us

  so that we too

  bear witness

  to the short-lived fate

  of a civilization

  that worships

  a male god

  your weapons

  are phallic

  all of them

  the dummy

  that sits on your lap

  is no longer

  a worthwhile spectacle

  his shrunken pale face

  leaves little room

  for imagination

  we have spotted

  your moving lips

  and have pinned the voice

  to its proper source

  it is a source of madness

  a source of hunger for power

  a source of weakness

  we are exiting your colosseum

  and encircling your box office

  demanding our families back

  our rituals back

  our cultures back

  our language back

  and our gods

  so that we may return them

  to their proper source

  the source of life

  the source of creation

  the womb of the Great Mother

  we will cut through

  the barbed wire hangers and chastity belts

  we will climb in

  and incubate our spirits

  through the winter

  we will wait through the degenerate course

  of your repeated history

  we will wait for the past to die

  pools of blood

  are not recreational

  even lifeguards drown

  when the undertow breaks bread with the under belly

  demons disguised as sharks

  have not put enough thought

  into their costumes

  a wiseman stays ashore

  when pointed finsr />
  read like italian subtitles

  the end is near (…)

  the beginning

  in the beginning her tears were the long awaited rains of a parched somali village. red dusted children danced shadows in the new found mounds of mascara that eclipsed her face, reflected in the smogged glass of carlos’ east street bodega. learning to love, SHE had forgotten to cry. seldom hearing the

  distant thunder in her lover’s ambivalent sighs. HE was not honest. SHE was not sure. a great grandfather had sacrificed the family’s clarity for gold in the late eighteen hundreds. nonetheless, SHE had allowed him to mispronounce her name, which had eventually led to her misinterpreting her own

  dreams. and, later, doubting them. but the night was young….

  …as a child, she played for hours with children never bothering to learn their names. they forged

  friendships and charters to nations that still

  stand.

  she is president

  of a sliding board

  her citizens surrender to the exuberance of

  falling

  knowing they will land

  on their feet

  …her uncle would swallow pictures of God

  to be sure that God was inside of him

  they institutionalized his stomach lining

  ’til he choked on his own belief system

  the truth was in his vomit

  she is within us

  cut to

  a world of dreams

  fluid and unremembered

  a multitude of tongues

  universed

  women adorned

  bracelets beaded

  with possible conclusions

  to stories

  that will never end

  our maned character sits in a long dark brown leather chair that is contoured to fit his entire body (an antique chair, perhaps, from one of old china’s opium dens). in his lap is a book made of blue and brown strips of fabric. definitely handmade. the pages are yellow, grainy and uneven. as if each page were torn to fit as opposed to cut. the book is bound by thin hemp strings. from over his right shoulder, we read as he writes:

  he looks up from his book and spots a shadow approaching his door. he writes:

  he drops his pen and then picks it up and quickly scribbles, as we hear a soft knock on the door:

  Journalist: What are you working on?

  Maned Character: An attack of the subconscious.

  J: Why?

  MC: Because it’s eating us alive.

  J: How would you characterize the subconscious of America, in particular, the youth of America?

  MC: As characterized. We are acting out the parts of age old scripts.

  J: Is there any way past that?

  MC: No.

  J: Then wouldn’t that render your work useless?

  MC: No.

  J: Why not?

  MC: There’s always room for improvisation.

  J: You mean, then, that we cannot help but act out our parts because “it is written,” but we can still find space to riff on what isn’t written.

  MC: Exactly. This is an appeal to the unwritten histories of the future.

  J: Aren’t you, then, doing the universe or humanity or the future some sort of disservice by writing it down.

  MC: Not really. Even with literacy rates going up, people don’t read as much as they did in the past, or rather the written word doesn’t carry as much weight. Or, at least, newly written words don’t. We’re still living out

  an old testament. What i’m doing is sort of a lyrical hacking. i’m figuring a way to fool the database into thinking that this book is older than it is. i’ve sampled elements of the code and dated aspects of the language. Sort of like post dating a check, but in reverse. Thus, the signals and symbols being sent to the database are old yet they register in a different way. And when the individual reading a passage decides to quit and then is asked by the database whether or not they would like to save the changes made to the document, i am hoping that they will mechanically click “yes”.

  J: And what if people don’t read it?

  MC: It will already be bound.

  J: Bound?

  MC: Yes, a book is always bound. And written word is often bound…to happen. It increases its likelihood. But really, as long as MTV markets it right, it should reach a lot of people. It’s carefully designed for the short attention span.

  J: Would you characterize yourself as different?

  MC: Well, it’s also written this way because my attention span is pretty short.

  behold, a story untold

  I HAVE SEEN THE MOON

  IN A SUN DRESS

  the ocean

  beneath her

  rippling in laughter

  at the sight

  of a lone man

  who learned to walk on water

  for a glimpse

  of his truth

  in her crater

  i have found the library

  where all the dreams deferred

  were stored

  catalogues of cultures

  indexed by communal disappearance

  mayans are metaphors

  for astral doors

  left cracked

  by children afraid

  to sleep in utter darkness

  i am unafraid to utter

  darkness

  i speak a shadowed truth

  like a newborn

  wrapped in a blanket

  tucked tight enough

  to resemble

  its mother’s celestial cave

  i am handing this child

  to you

  the godparent

  of a foreshadowing

  soon to be revealed

  when you remove

  the plastic seal

  come see

  how death is a myth

  there are no deceased

  only deceived

  death only awaits

  those who believed

  i surrendered

  my beliefs

  and found myself

  at the tree of life

  injecting my story

  into the veins

  of leaves

  only to find that stories

  like forests

  are subject to seasons

  i am the deads latest experiment

  a midwife birthing afterlife

  the unborn are fully present

  we have disguised ourselves

  from ourselves

  so that our daily thoughts

  may not sabotage

  our spirits’

  ascendance

  thrice immersed

  into the wordly

  we are

  self-forgotten

  for our own benefit

  i am forced

  to disassemble

  my being

  to fit into your monitor

  i hand you my spirit

  as i walk through

  customs

  i am to be reassembled

  after the final check point

  sorcery of self:

  a phrase i coined

  and now surrender to you

  it’s as if i’ve swallowed

  an interior decorator

  i like my heart where it is

  i cannot make

  your past disappear

  only rabbits, my love,

  only rabbits

  depleted memory banks

  have grounded our emotional economy

  we have been forced

  to create a new currency

  one that will truly allow us

  to love our neighbors

  for reasons beyond guilt and pity

  i have offered myself

  to the inkwell of the wordsmith

  that i might be shaped

  into new terms of being

  only through new words

  might new worlds

  be calle
d

  into order

  i stretch my body

  into your symbols of statehood

  i am a citizen

  casting my vote

  and net

  in the same breath

  i dare not keep what i reap

  i am only fishing

  for momentary companionship

  i have committed myself

  to adultery

  i will only sleep

  with GOD’s wife

  our affair

  is no secret

  he gets his thrills

  from watching us

  i cannot tear myself

  from her eyes

  i am, indeed,

  her pupil

  and no longer fear

  the unseen

  teach me

  thy ways

  o lord

  steady my hands

  upon your breasts

  and guide me

  to your altar

  swallow me whole

  so that i may

  be born

  again

  a great one has said

  that poets are midwives

  to reality

  yet these words

  catch me

  when i would have them

  let me go

  omb

  that cross

  did nothing more

  than make a death chamber

  of a nursery

  i became

  as a child

  only after

  i had entered

  the kingdom

  introduce me

  to your after-life

  let me see

  if i can tempt it

  from its cloud form

  those white robes

  are the very cloaks

  of your enemies

  and their leader

  has the brazen tone

  of your shepherd

  maybe you shouldn’t have prayed

  with your eyes closed

  open eyes plainly see

  the resemblance

  a prayer stamped