The New Terrorists

The first demonstration didn’t seem like a demonstration at all:
A man stood up
And read a poem
It told the truth about some police
The police dragged him down
In the spaces between the words
He said he was the new terrorist

Next came a stage play:
Men in kesho makeup and flowing gowns
We laughed
We knew it was a demonstration
Because the Elected Ones had just passed letters
Banning men from becoming
Or even dressing like women
And vice versa
Especially vice versa
The Elected Ones saw it as vice, a drag
It was kabuki
The militia men had no sense of humor about it:
They dragged the painted men down
Noh more dancing

In the next demonstration, a woman stood up:
Hers
Was a dance
A wonderful world
Control over rhythm and step
Gravity and beauty
Form and function
But not over body
He threw her roses
Her form was to function as an incubator, a copy machine
He made her bear it
No more dancing
And no more roses. Not red ones
It was a wonderful world
She wished they could hear her song, but soon they dragged even that out of her
She never meant to become the new terrorist
But she had
And she wanted to
The song faded
She died
Black roses. The band played on
Others pick up the dance but not her dance
They learn the rhythm and step without knowing
Gravity and shame
Beauty and rage
They can’t wait to become the new terrorists

Next, a scene:
Protesters outside a capital
Selected police came for them
And as the men in blue drew their guns, music soared
A band began to play
A voiceover now, cast over a loudspeaker:
“The world dies, but inside their mansions those elected to protect and help hide
“They love guns over children
“Performance over action
“Money over people
“Party over country
“Con artists”
The militia men and police were one now. (In reality, they always were.)
It’s not clear which of them shot first
The band plays:
The bodies fall in sweeping string instrument crescendos
Glass shatters against cascading chimes tumbling brightly into cymbals:
Ting, ting tingaling—CRASH!
Staccato semiautomatic gunfire
Bodies. Gas. Bullets.
Rich Ivory Lies
The band plays on
“What a won-DER-ful world”
But the voiceover, the music—it’s like watching a movie. We watchers…we…feel things:
Confusion. Horror. Panic. Pain.
And other things—dark and unnamable
Immutable
Is this a performance?
No
A demonstration. In real time
We feel things. Deep burning things—
Things they tried to medicate us so we could not feel
Things they forgave us the weed so we would not feel
The band plays on until the robot dogs and batons, the guns and gas turn on them—the band—and drag them down between the notes into silence
Those of us watching, witnessing, we…we feel things:
Fear, hurt, hatred, more hurt…
Death
And something else, burning deeply, brightly:
We feel rage
And hope
The artists paint signs and canvases and billboards
Red in demonstration, in protest
The Elected Ones outlaw red paint
So their selected political militia police—
Their politias drag it down from the shelves of the stores
The artists replace it with blood. Their blood
Sacrifice is easy for artists
The writers take to the Internet
They dismantle the shadow stories the State spins
They demonstrate in real time the lies
The State seizes the networks by the thighs
But it’s too late: We know
We remember how
We remember how to
We fight
And we remember: It didn’t begin with the poet at all
The first demonstration was a story
And it began like this:
The first demonstration didn’t seem like a demonstration at all: A man stood up
And read…
Gravity and hope
Beauty and truth
A poem
A play
A dance
A song
Music;
Art, script, story…
These are our weapons. We remember

And we can’t wait to become the new terrorists