On the Steps of the Michigan Union

i am a disciple of the chaos bred from hearty fists
pounding on podiums—i am a riot ensued when the call
of injustice rings loud through the corridor with terror.
i am one with the blackrimmed eyes that linger
through the moors in mist and shadows and watch us
lay siege to the whips and chains that leave marks
on our tender flesh. i am the exodus from the dry untidy
desert that holds us bound in the sand. i am the Messiah
for a lost cause: a beacon for those undressing then bathing
in words, verses, stanzas, rhymes—those who take rose petals
and make bandages to cover salted wounds. i am a brother
to a nation of those standing below gaudy pedestals
covered in the blood of our mothers and fathers, their pale skin
strewn over the backs of the conquerers who raped
our poetry until there was nothing left, nothing but manipulation
and molestation of the settled lands we rode upon
as once valiant warriors. this is where it all crumbled—
but here i stands collecting pieces and moving them
into their old structure of expression: of one.
i am a single thing, an i in a world of wes
that takes the juices from the earth and sprays them
over those dead and dying—over those who keep still
while the impressions bury themselves into their bones;
i am Jesus, Mary, and Joseph; Matthew, Mark,
Luke, and John. i am prince and pope; i am pauper
and lord—any one who can save this from such rapture.

i am.

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