Y'ALL

choices

isn’t it something
how we give of ourselves to the world
the most precious, tremendous, and beautiful
parts of us

and save the painful, the heartbreaking,
the brooding, the dark pieces
for ourselves

isn’t it something
how the world gives of itself to us
the most precious, tremendous, and beautiful
parts of itself

and saves the painful, the heartbreaking,
the brooding, the dark pieces
for us

only when we so choose to receive it

isn’t it something
how between the world and us
there are choices

most precious, tremendous, and beautiful
most painful, heartbreaking
brooding, and dark

to always give what is good
even when we don’t receive it ourselves

storms

storms
like ones you’ve never seen before
all bottled up inside
waiting to react to the shake and pull
of the earth

of your hands

i wake myself at dawn
with rain swelling at my pores
the lightning flashes with your eyes
and you speak my name when the thunder roars

i toss and turn as you reach
my storm is brewing
like ones you’ve never seen before

Sometimes fate is like a small sandstorm that keeps changing directions. You change direction but the sandstorm chases you. You turn again, but the storm adjusts. Over and over you play this out, like some ominous dance with death just before dawn. Why? Because this storm isn’t something that blew in from far away, something that has nothing to do with you. This storm is you. Something inside of you. So all you can do is give in to it, step right inside the storm, closing your eyes and plugging up your ears so the sand doesn’t get in, and walk through it, step by step. There’s no sun there, no moon, no direction, no sense of time. Just fine white sand swirling up into the sky like pulverized bones. That’s the kind of sandstorm you need to imagine.
And you really will have to make it through that violent, metaphysical, symbolic storm. No matter how metaphysical or symbolic it might be, make no mistake about it: it will cut through flesh like a thousand razor blades. People will bleed there, and you will bleed too. Hot, red blood. You’ll catch that blood in your hands, your own blood and the blood of others.
And once the storm is over you won’t remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive. You won’t even be sure, in fact, whether the storm is really over. But one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm you won’t be the same person who walked in. That’s what this storm’s all about.

Kafka On the Shore, Haruki Murakami

goodbye 2016. a bittersweet congrats to all of us who made it–especially those of us who didn’t want to, who dared to imagine something different, another way, another life; those of us who saw all of what was around us crumble and die, wilt and burn; those of us who hung on and stuck it out to see if anything could grow, whether it be a flower or weeds.

a deep and unwavering salute to all we have lost. a big “i love you” and “i miss you. everyday.” whether they were our friend, our sibling, our comrade, prince or george michael.

and now may we open up our arms for another year, and struggle just for a little longer, get hype just a little harder, and organize a little stronger. hold each other in the love of justice, in the service of revolution, in an attempt to remake ourselves and the relationships which are strained daily why the horrors of capitalism. may we make our lives worthy by fighting for the seemingly impossible. for making the idealistic real. for a free palestine. for a world without prisons and borders. for a future without imperialist war. for sovereignty for our Native siblings. for self-determination for our Black kindred. for dignity for all of us. and may the next time we mourn we remember that revolution does not happen on its own, that each of us must be what the other needs, that there are hundreds of thousands of our loved ones we need to win, that so long as we know change is gonna come that we be the force to make it happen without a doubt in our minds.