fight off the lethargy, don't go quietly. (original) (raw)

by daphne gottlieb, march 23, 2003 to be distributed freely

No Poetry After Auschwitz

said Adorno, but there are still

poems, in a mark of arrogance or hope,

maybe both.

This is not a poem

it is a rock

through a window--

it is a smash

and run--

it is a broken capitalism machine

150 miles

from Baghdad.

The television is on at the law firm.

There is no business as usual.

The building is surrounded by fences

and riot cops

who are fighting the crime

of free speech, free assembly.

Yesterday they dragged a woman by her hair.

Today, last night, three days ago,

the Anarchists covered their faces

hid Molotov cocktails in the bushes.

On our way to the protest, my friend tells me,

I am not covering my face.

It seems its one of the fundamental freedoms left.

I have a bandana in my pocket

just in case.

I am trying to find ways

to stem my own anger,

my body a grenade rolling in the street

teeth clenched, handing out flowers

stolen from the lobby of a law firm

to the motorists we delay, thanking them

for their patience

while the U.S. bombs

the fuck out of another country

it has already starved to death.

I am trying to find reasons not

to smash things. Last night an American soldier

threw three grenades into commanders tents.

They say he acted out of resentment.

I understand resentment

I believe in nonviolence

I stick my hands in my pockets

to make sure

I don't pick up a rock

one we are the people

Two A Little Bit Louder Now

Three Who Are Going

FOUR TO STOP THIS WAR

There are protestors in white

armed with saxophones, drums,

dance training

Show me what democracy looks like?

THIS IS WHAT DEMOCRACY

LOOKS LIKE

The protesters in white have forgotten

the difference between protest

and performance,

the difference between comrades

and audience.

They will make the evening news.

In New York

ground zero kids tell me

the cop psyop wagon broadcast:

"The march is now over.

Please leave the area

in an orderly fashion."

New York stood in front of the truck,

got a bullhorn

and started shouting

"THE WAR IS NOW OVER.

PLEASE LEAVE IRAQ

IN AN ORDERLY FASHION"

In Chicago,

they are dancing in the streets

to block traffic.

This resistance

will not be joyless.

Outside the Federal Building,

a mobile generator

on a bike-drawn cart,

huge speakers

blare NOT IN MY NAME

a marching band plays War Pigs

the DJs fist is in the air

a Dixieland band plays

Down by the Riverside

and we dance in the street

Yes, remember

Rachel Corrie

killed by a bulldozer

but she put her own body

on the line

using her own privilege,

her own choice. How many

have died with nothing

but their geography to blame?

How many names will we never

hear because they

had brown skin, not white?

Because of lines they

never drew and could not

get outside of? Because

they

are not

ours?

Whose streets?

OUR STREETS.

Whose streets?

The rich restaurateur who is

a San Francisco Supervisor

says, We will prosecute

protestors to the fullest

extent of the law. Write

the legal aid phone number

on your forearm. Listen

for the order to disperse.

Go limp.

Do not fight the cops.

Watch your back.

It is terrifying how quickly

Free Palestine

becomes

End the Occupation

becomes

Kill the Jews

At work, the secretaries

are watching with shock and awe.

I want to know

if there's a body count.

12, they tell me.

Iraqis? Really?

Oh no, they say, sipping coffee,

eating salads, fries.

That's Americans.

That's the only number

we've heard.

That's the only number.

Whose streets?

OUR STREETS!

Whose streets?

Thursday, we shut down the Federal Building.

We shut down Bechtel. We blitzed Halliburton.

We shut down the Bay Bridge.

I say we because I watched it on TV.

I say we because I was there.

I say we as I write this in sunny San Francisco

on a fully loaded computer

smoking multinational corporate cigarettes,

before I eat breakfast,

after I've slept adequately

in a warm house

full of love.

I am waiting for

text messages from the antiwar bloc

to show up on my cell phone.

Lighting candles, signing petitions

blocking intersections, chanting,

walking until my feet are blistered

shouting until my throat is raw

I'm trying so hard to change things

but I cant even get the blood off my hands.