“, said the shotgun to the head, is an invitation to live and die in the moment, a confrontation of the politics of empire, a dare to transform oneself in the face of fear and a post 9-11 love song all in one.”

—Zack de la Rocha

the greatest americans

have not been born yet

they are waiting patiently

for the past to die

please give blood

Here is the account of a man so ravished by a kiss that it distorts his highest and lowest frequencies of understanding into an incongruent mean of babble and brilliance….

“An astonishing… poet. The internal rhyme, metrics, and imagery are so fleet… that they’re humbling.”

—The Washington Post

visit us on the world wide web.

http://www.SimonandSchuster.com

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“[Saul Williams is] a mighty talent. He takes readers on epic voyages into frontiers that offer a refreshing awakening of the mind and a roller coaster ride into an abyss of demons, deities, occult symbols, and more.”

—Amsterdam News

Saul Williams is the author of two previous books of poetry, S/he (MTV/Pocket Books) and The Seventh Octave (Moore Black Press). His debut album, Amethyst Rock Star, earned him great critical acclaim, as did his starring role in Slam. Williams also co-wrote Slam, which garnered the Grand Jury Prize at the Sundance Film Festival and the Caméra d'Or at the Cannes Film Festival. Visit his website at www.saulwilliams.com.

photo: katina parker

, said the shotgun to the head.

Also by Saul Williams

S/he

The Seventh Octave

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POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Page vi: Paul Robeson, from Paul Robeson Speaks, Kensington Publishing Corporation. First published by Citadel Press/Carol Publishing/Carol Communications, Copyright 1978 Bruner Mazel, Inc. “The Night/1,” from The Book of Embraces by Eduardo Galeano, translated by Cedric Belfrage with Mark Schafer. Copyright © 1989 by Eduardo Galeano. English translation copyright © 1991 by Cedric Belfrage. Used by permission of the author and W. W. Norton & Company, Inc.

Page 3: “All Those Ships That Never Sailed,” from a poem by Bob Kaufman in The Ancient Rain: Poems 1956-1978, copyright 1958, New Directions Publishing Corporation.

Copyright © 2003 by Saul Williams

MTV Music Television and all related titles, logos, and characters are trademarks of MTV Networks, a division of Viacom International Inc.

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Pocket Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

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To my mother

Contents

Introduction

Chapter 10

Chapter 9

Chapter 8

Chapter 7

Chapter 6

Chapter 5

Chapter 4

Chapter 3

Chapter 2

Chapter 1

Chapter 0

Chapter 1

Acknowledgments

The man who accepts Western values absolutely, finds his creative faculties becoming so warped and stunted that he is almost completely dependent on external satisfactions, and the moment he becomes frustrated in his search for these, he begins to develop neurotic symptoms, to feel that life is not worth living, and, in chronic cases, to take his own life.

PAUL ROBESON

I can’t sleep. There is a woman stuck between my eyelids. I would tell her to get out if I could. But there is a woman stuck in my throat.

EDUARDO GALEANO

INTRODUCTION

Have you ever been kissed by God? Passionately (tongue, lips, etc.)? Or are you one who simply condemns God to the realm of the invisible? When do you feel most comfortable? When do you feel most loved? Perhaps it is in the warm embrace of your lover or in the assuring touch of your mother. Perhaps, like me, you have likened this person to God in your life and realized that God was loving you through them. Or maybe you don’t believe in God. Cool. Here’s a simpler question: Have you ever lost yourself in a kiss? I mean pure psychedelic inebriation. Not just lustful petting but transcendental metamorphosis when you became aware that the greatness of this being was breathing into you. Licking the sides and corners of your mouth, like sealing a thousand fleshy envelopes filled with the essence of your passionate being and then opened by the same mouth and delivered back to you, over and over again—the first kiss of the rest of your life. A kiss that confirms that the universe is aligned, that the world’s greatest resource is love, and maybe even that God is a woman. With or without a belief in God, all kisses are metaphors decipherable by allocations of time, circumstance, and understanding.

This book is the result of a kiss. A kiss that brings symbols to life and fear-based shortcomings to their symbolic death. To be kissed by a deity is nothing short of a miracle. The mind altering/altaring effects can last more than a lifetime. Here is the account of a man so ravished by a kiss that it distorts his highest and lowest frequencies of understanding into an incongruent mean of babble and brilliance. He wanders the streets disheveled and tormented by all that he sees that does not reflect her love. He is a wandering man, sort of like a modern day John the Baptist, telling of the coming of a female messiah that he has known intimately. He is the babbling man you cross the street to avoid. He is the unavoidable end before the new beginning. He is a lover in search of greater love. SHE is One and many: Kali, the Hindu goddess of destruction and creation; Oya, the Yoruba orisha of death and rebirth; the Holy Ghost, which is to say, the woman restored to her rightful place in the Holy Trinity. No longer ghost, no longer virgin, SHE is mother of us all.

saul williams,

Los Angeles, 2003

CITIZENS,

children of the night,

bearers of the day torch:

scorched and burned.

BURN NOT.

the dam is broken.

the curse is fled.

once muddied and still,

the river runs

RED!

“ALL

those ships that never sailed

the ones with their seacocks open

that were scuttled in their stalls

TODAY

i bring them back

HUGE AND INTRANSITORY

and let them sail

FOREVER!”*

if ever

there were currents

uncurrent

the wind

could not serve as

truth’s currency

CURRENTLY

MOON MARKED

AND

SUN SPARKED

UNMARKED BILLS

i AM

CERTAIN

i SPEAK A NEW LANGUAGE

as is ALWAYS

THE FIRST SIGN

of a

NEW AGE

i had begun to believe my blackened toenails

were on path to decay when, in truth,

they had begun the gradual process of

CRYSTALLIZATION.

i am he who walks on wind scorned feet with toenails of

AMETHYST AND ROSE QUARTZ.

my path now crystal clear.

i AM COME TO TELL YOU

SHE IS HERE.

it is not written

NO pen MAN ship

was ever CARGOED

with her character

NOTE:

BOOKS ARE CAREFULLY FOLDED FORESTS

void of autumn

BOUND FROM THE

SUN

Likewise, she made her residence

ON THE OUTSKIRTS

OF A SHADOWING HISTORY

ON THE DARKSIDE OF THE MOON

where the searchlight of the sun

COULD NOT SPOT HER

nor rot her

the seed of forbidden fruit

every tree

HAS A HIDDEN ROOT

YET, SHE HAS

COME TO LIGHT

THE SWELLING PATCHWORK

OF VIBRANT DREAMS

YES, THERE IS A SCIENCE

TO THE AROMA

OF SLEEPING WOMEN

(AND TO THINK OF THE GIRLFRIEND i WAS TEMPTED TO BREAK UP WITH BECAUSE SHE SLEPT TOO MUCH)

i now know, they NURTURED her there:

they slept in packs

dreamt in cycles

NURSED HER IN SHIFTS

and became her

ON ROTATION

unnamed her

everytime she was named

so she would not be known to anyone

(even unto herself)

undressed her

everytime she was dressed

so she would not be

recognized

as anyone other than

herself

they blindfolded her

and spun her

in circles

so she would

find her way here

by no other means

than her intuition

and

she

is

come

i am a simple disoriented man

in her presence

i wear my loincloth

over my eyes

and ejaculate

too soon

forgive me father

for i have sinned

i prayed to you

and cupped

the wind

and in doing so

barred her entry

into a century:

100 years

of solitude

(yes, the wind is the moon’s imagination wandering)

i will now pray

with my hands

outstretched

with these psalms

etched

into my palms

most beloved,

i am certain of nothing more

than your existence

a thousand ants

crawling under a log

may find themselves exposed

in my childlike search

for you

i have spent lifetimes

in monasteries

and drum stretched

villages

in expectation

of this:

our

ecstatic dance

my kali flower

i am eternally destroyed

by your love

no longer

am i eligible

for any worker’s

pension

my friends laugh at me

and talk behind my back

they say that you have

changed me

and

i am

i am like a survivor

of the flood

walking through the streets

drenched with

God

surprised that all of the

drowned victims

are still walking and talking

maybe there’s hope

i rush to each victim’s side

sucking what i can of you

out of your various

incarnations

pumping their stomachs

and filling them

to touch them

is to touch you

to kiss them

is to kiss you

my friends,

love is an artform

slightly removed

from its element

one may ask

well what does this mean?

i respond

i’ve made it up

but it shall be

from now on

from now on

cities

will be built

on one side

of the street

so that soothsayers

will have wilderness to wander

and lovers

space enough

to contemplate

a kiss

she kissed

as if she, alone,

could forge

the signature

of the sun

i closed my eyes

although

i never knew

the difference

i stood before

a brighter light

at lesser

distance

and then, a feeling. Almost as if nothing were ever bound to repeat itself again. As if history had been as masterfully created as the great pyramids and any attempt to reconstruct or relive any given moment would have to stem from an understanding of how the pyramids were built from the

top down.

and if one could understand such majesty one would also understand that kisses hold codes for unlocking new portals and that pyramids were first made of flesh

our bonded souls

shifting through

hidden corrals

and passageways

i will find my way

to eternity

within you

when i can feel you

breathing into me

i, like a stone gargoyle

atop some crumbling building,

spring to life

a resuscitated

angel

i sweep through city streets

my wings out-stretched

making mothers

clutch their young

and remember

and do you remember, dear ones

or has your history forsaken you?

there were tales told ’round fires

mysteries coded in song

chants and uprisings

centuries of art

all incantations

calling forth this day

on this day

the drunks vomit in unison

’though last night they drank from different cups

children laugh and play

introducing their parents

to invisible friends

a country girl smiles

and two trees blossom

out of season

sea sons awaken

our mother has returned

to wave us

from uncertainty

once tidal

twice born

of wooden ships

thrice formed

through mother’s hips

mother ships

graced tu lips

a poet’s garden

“2 for 5”

“they’re going fast”

the future’s bargain

“that’s strange”

“i heard my name”

the river’s parting

“hurry up”

things blurry up

the sun is darkened

rivers

like oceans

oceans

like answers

questions

in cloud forms

raindrops

in stanzas

to be

or not to…

to see

or not to…

she had eyes

like two turntables

mix(h)er

in between

my dreams          and reality

blend in

ancient themes

the bass is of isis

(basis)

cross-faded to ankh

the beat drops

like a cliff

over-looking

my heart

6000 feet

above

sea level

3300 bodies

disassembled

the head bone’s

connected

to the cock pit

knee jerk

ass backwards

dancing slaves

in a mosh pit

punk rock

of gibraltar

roll out

nothing’s new

mo’ blood dyes

the mo hawk

only this time

it’s you

and you

never loved her

for what she

possessed

you powdered

her face

and came

on her

head-dress

oil slicked feathers, putrid stenched water-bed

“mother nature’s a whore,” said the shotgun to the head.

and it smelled like teen spirit

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 {<jap. equiv. to kami=divine + kaze=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 fins

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 called

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

return to sender

tables over turned

in a temple

bitten apples

that encourage you

to think different

God has hair

on her pussy

and waits

burning with desire

for you

this is no blasphemy

you have erected

ancient penises

in your capitols

and prayed

in the name

of a father

a male child

and a ghost

i am only revealing

what was hidden

under the floating

white sheet

the same sheet

you crawled under

to reach ecstasy

with your lover

the same sheet

under which

you created life

and progeny

unfasten your mind

from your fears

you cower behind your God

as he leads you into slavery

and war

your curren(cy)t-sea

reflects an army

of dead men

the moon is ignored

you, too, can become

her cyclical sacrament

your children drown

in the cross-fire

you throw search parties

for a profit (f=ph)

and pray

to your rev.enue

your dead ancestors

re-die

in air tight vaults

they conspire

to seduce your children

you have done nothing

to protect them

from the evil eye

i serve

a living God

she is a distorted horn solo

fingered by the hand

of a master

time’s signature

has done no more

than punctuate

her curvature

God plays a human instrument

wind pipes horny

when tongue kisses reed

heart beats bump

over-turned tables

heads nod in affirmation

yes, yes, y’all

you don’t stop

not even when every sign

tells you that you should

your father’s diet

kills him

and you hire

his chef

you wage war

on minimum wage

and the people

purchase their delicacies

from Target

maybe you should aim

elsewhere

a prince

sings of thieves

in a temple

you call your doctor

complaining

of a migraine

she loads

2 leaden pills

into a 3 pound needle

and asks you

where it hurts

hers is the song

you cannot get

from your head

you blame your thoughts

on magdalene

and let bostonians

wash your feet

your sidewalks

scuff your wingtips

your angels fly

through barrels

monkeys laugh at them

intelligence is intuitive

you needn’t learn to love

unless you’ve been taught

to fear and hate

your students

kill each other

and their teachers

they are angry

at not being taught

that pink and floyd

were blues singers

quarantined

from the source of power

that would project their image

as well as their sound

and those

who do not know

their history

are bound to repeat it

unbound, she made her residence

on the dark side of the moon

she detangled herself

from her bed-post

and washed

your crusted fears away

“massa always do dat

when miss betsy done gone

to visit her sista. he cain’t wait

to tie dat poor sarah up and

have his way wid her”

your ancestors smile up

from your backpockets

you buy another candy bar

your teeth rot

your head still aches

you’ve gotta do something

about this migraine

your analyst works overtime

your broker calls

urging you to sell your stock

in a certain prescription drug company

before tomorrow’s news

hits the stands

your life savings

in dead men’s currency

you keep your gun

in your desk drawer

movies have taught you

your hiding places

silver screens with bare walls

behind them

the illustrators of bare walls

projected their dreams

beyond their fears

theirs were the walls

of pyramids

yours are the walls

of crumbled towers

the truth still stands

alone

at the dance

waiting for you

to take her hand

you only need ask

you sit behind your desk

ready to aim

at the cloaked thief

in your temple

the spooked groom

who mistakes his bride

for a ghost

she can no longer hide

her form behind her veil

you are a cocked trigger

smuggled into a house of prayer

the statues arouse

your blood to wine

her essence

cupped in her being

she has made herself

available to you

she needn’t steal your heart

if you give it to her

the cops and robbers

of your childhood

neglected to teach you

such simplicity

i came to know her

before she overthrew

my government

it was no conspiracy

only an unraveling

of a fist

her charm

is in her silence

she speaks

in extended parenthesis

hers is the voice from nowhere

the earth

her diaphragm

she speaks

through wind

always giving reverence

to her molten core

fathered by sun and sky

we are offspring of spring

reborn from the bounty

of her nourishment

our father gives

in the one way he knows

she makes the dough

and bids him bake

our daily bread

we set our table at twilight

and hold hands

offering grace to the wind

acknowledging that even he who shines

was born out of the mystery

of her darkness

our mother holds no judgment

she absorbs our father’s light

into her flesh and blood

regenerating

an offering universal

God is a single mother

to the eldest of her children

she is known by many names

they build their fires

in the night

and tune into her windsong

each dance is known by heart

and foot and mouth

the frenzy of the fire

is our own unquenched desire

to become the one

she takes into her house

have you ever been?

are you experienced?

have you ever been

to electric lady land?

did you drink from the fountain?

did you bask in her molten core?

did she call your name

and guide you to her peak?

did you feel her quake and tremble?

did you feel the need to restrain her?

did she unmask her loving fury?

did she frighten you?

did you question what it felt like

to have someone inside of you?

to swallow life and incubate

a world to come?

did you ask her how it felt

to be God incarnate?

to be daughter of the moon

bearing the sun?

this is her body

this is her blood

tithes and offerings

made to the father

have kept buddha laughing

he knows that dharmic needs

are karmic deeds undone

a love supreme

summoned from dreams

fuses now

with the hereafter

as spirit to flesh

is melded by the sun

oya, kali ma

here is an offering

these words recited

from my heart

to yours and yours

i am thankful for the trees

shaped into coffins

that we now shred

to bed these words

within our cores

paper mills

may you recycle

all that was stolen

and/or lost

so that these newest testaments

might come at lesser costs

what is the cost of freedom?

and how is it paid?

to be free

of the rigmarole

of age old traditions

based on submission and fear

one must pay with the courage

to stand alone

to be free

of the restraints

of a culture

that instills the will

of material possession and domination

into its citizens

one must learn to honor

the substance of their materials

and the etymological roots

of their findings

mater: fr. Latin.meaning mother

this is a material world

your priests and presidents

no longer matter

only you and i, my love

in order to commune

we must dismiss the false gods

we have granted domain

over our will and testament

this earth is our sanctuary

nothing more need be built

our mother

has erected

mountains of quartz

we only need climb

to synchronize our hearts

with hers

the truth

erupts from her core

we court a corrupted institution

subject to the division of its faculty

we are tenured students of intuition

professors of a truth beyond reason

schooled in the over priced cities

in the valleys of our consciousness

we are charged

for our own discharge

we look to the mother

knowing that our imposed tuition

will be covered

install our payment plans

in pele’s tears

all disaster

is both natural

and preventable

but imposed force

will only manifest

your fears

come, my love

we have mountains to climb

wilderness to wander

you have shown me

a love that cannot be

given or taken

let us bask

in the fullness

of ourselves

a simple kiss

now blood and breath

both awakened

a balanced diet

to sustain

life and health

we will wax and wane

in attention given from our father

we can trust he will return

yet, she is here

she has granted us this land

to forge her cycle

and when we doubt

places the ocean

in our tears

come, my love

we have oceans to sail

the painted nature

of this earth

is water-based

and will fade

if not tended

let us retrace the origin

of a kiss

they have ravished

your heart and mind

but your breath

travels freely

out of your mouth

and into mine

there is the current

i wish to sail

here is a love

uncharted

throw away your map

and swallow

this cratered pill

pull it from the sky

and let it dissolve

under your tongue

it is only a matter of time

before we are timeless

do you feel it yet?

wow

i can trace

each shadow

back to its origin

can you feel it yet?

drink more water

take deeper breaths

wow

why have i been

so afraid of love?

so afraid of being vulnerable?

so afraid of being open?

it’s like

every mannerism and gesture

was a lie

some sort of shield

to protect me

from the judgment

of others

oh my god

turn the music up

wow

do you feel that bass line?

it feels like a snake

how could you not

yield to temptation?

why would you not?

dance!

yeah!

eve was just open

and that’s what scared

that father/sun god

ha! that’s why they named her eve

they were just afraid of the dark

scared of their mother’s own womb

afraid of the unknown

what happens to a society

when mystery is labeled

as evil?

it yields an ever-connected chain

of false labels and misinterpretations

the indigenous are labeled

as savage terrorists

and plotted against

the open-hearted

are manipulated into slavery

the vulnerable are penetrated

by force of law

citizens

where is your allegiance?

why do you pledge

with a covered heart

when it needs be opened?

why do you bear arms

with balled fists

and closed palms?

why do you call yourself

a patriot (pater: fr. Latin.meaning father)

when your greatest love has always been

for your mother?

this loaded phallus

has becum

the prevailing metaphor

of the day

you’ve spent your chi

on cheap versions

of the virgin

you’ve worshipped

loopholes in a story

and war shipped

mythic men to glory

if in god’s image

then your god’s

a plastic surgeon

a tyrannic dictator

a coward behind a curtain

with a megaphone

an aging oil tycoon

on viagra

ramming his plow

into the earth

turning up disease

and disaster

out of an ever-drying womb

you will become her cyclical sacrament

menstrual minstrels

footing your own bill

of right left right

marching blindly

into a moonless night

another dimension

where children use chalk

on the sidewalk

tracing their bodies

for the precriminal investigation

of their paternal inheritance:

murder!

men in uniform

take note

love refuses

to take cover

the cloaked enchantress

of your faith

now prevails

if you refuse

yourself and her

then take the fire

from your holster

and lend your breath

so that my love and i

may sail

ready

aim

fire!

water

earth

wind

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I am eternally indebted to so many who have helped bring this book to your hands: my literary agent, Charlotte Gusay, who works hard at keeping me from being a flake. Thank you everyone at MTV/Pocket Books for your commitment and for investing your talents and time into mine: Liate Stehlik at Pocket Books and Demond Jarrett, my editor. Jacob Hoye at MTV Books and all of the graphic designers and associates who have worked on this project. I would especially like to thank my manager, Sara Newkirk, and her assistant, Amirah, who have helped me envision a practical means of artistic growth and merit, and my lawyer, Jennifer Justice. I would like to offer all of you my sincere gratitude for being in your position and having the heart and savvy to honor mine. I pray that we all continue to work together to bring about the necessary fulfillment of our destinies.

Then I would like to thank the inspired spirit of beat poet Bob Kaufman. His legendary ten-year Buddhist vow of silence that began with the assassination of John F. Kennedy in 1963 and ended ten years later when he decreed, “All those ships that never sailed …,” has resonated very deeply within me. There is, perhaps, no greater discipline than that of a channeling poet who chooses to remain silent. His silence was in response to death and assassination and, thus, I must also thank those who have died and those who have killed for playing their role in the unfolding of the present. Their many spirits are cargoed in this pen/man/ship.

I would also like to thank Allen Ginsberg, who kissed me three weeks before his death and told me of the power of chanting OM. His voice, along with the voice of Imamu Amiri Baraka, echoed through my mind as I wrote this poem. So, to all of the poets of the Beat Generation and the Black Arts/Power Movement, thank you for your voices and canon.

Another great inspiration was the Persian Sufi poet Hafiz, whose commitment to God and poetry was beautifully blasphemous. His work is a gift to us all. Thus, I also extend my thanks to the translators who have made works such as his and Rumi’s understandable to me.

Then I would like to thank all of my closest loved ones and friends simply for being my closest loved ones and friends (if you’re someone who knows that I am actually very silly and not at all as serious as one might think, I am talking to you). I am thankful for all of the different realities that you have all brought into my life. Some of us don’t talk as much as we used to, but I still look forward to that big commune where we can all get together and laugh and dance and tell all the wonderful stories of how we got from there to here and what we learned on the way.

And I would like to thank you, the reader, and whoever or whatever directed your attention to this book. Thank you for allowing these words into your mind and possibly your heart. Thank you for every kind word or thought. Thank you for the patience that it took to figure out what the fuck I was talking about on page X. Thank you for the discussions you may have and the people you may open. To inspire means to breathe in, to inhale. We are of common breath and purpose. I am inspired by your existence. There are many deities crowded into your flesh trying to get a glimpse of this world through your eyes. Upon meeting some of you I have felt them crowd into my being, sometimes elbowing and jabbing each other for a momentary glimpse of you through mine. I see your beauty and reflect it. I honor the GOD in you and pray that your prayers be answered in kisses.

May these words bring worlds,

saul williams

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