[Applause]
there was nothing symbolic about Martin
Luther King being shot no metaphor could
capture the sting a community felt when
yet another assassination tore at the
resolve of folk who lived in their heads
and dreamed of someday and one day a
bullet can punctuate a movement but I
don’t think about that day not even when
my son comes marching with images of the
man embellished in crayon and the kind
of exuberance that only youthfulness and
naivete can sustain he wants to tell me
about the dream Martin had and the evil
in the world that took it he runs it all
down for me wide-eyed and mortified in
these conversations with history where
great men who dared to jut out were
struck down and the gross and
proprieties of it all and the incredible
immorality of it all and the needless
‘no sand senselessness of it all can’t
believe how damn ungodly we were he
needs me to do something about it
to wrestle the past down into fairytales
and attach and they all lived happily
ever after at the end but I don’t think
about that day or the man who steadied
his hand shouldered his rifle and put
Martin in his scope a man who woke up
that morning and ate his eggs and drank
his coffee with a mission statement
curdling his veins a man who knew he
would take a life that day a big life a
bigger than can be believed life because
all life is bigger than can be believed
and how maybe he showered in silence you
know feeling powerful and intentional
and whoever loved him maybe kissed his
cheek and said some not at all epic
thing to him as he was leaving like hey
don’t forget to pick up some milk on
your way in and how he nodded and knew
he would obligate history to remember
him steeped in his own vast set of
politics and platforms he set his jaw
against the hubris of history and he
squeezed but I don’t think about that
day or the one that preceded it
when Coretta must have felt something
catching her back that heavy their steps
and pulled her lip down must have gazed
as she did every morning at the man she
married and been struck dumb by how
unlucky they were to be talking out loud
about freedom and what happens when
people start believing and the women who
hung the hopes they had for an entire
generation on the sermons of a man
Coretta married because he made her last
not the tattered Bible earmarked and
underlined under his arm but because he
made her laugh a deep and rollin laugh
that moved her to girlishness and wet
her mouth and smiles naw I don’t think
about that day or the one after it
when Coretta must have had locusts in
her belly and could see neither
mountaintop nor Promised Land over her
children’s wailing their small hands
pulling at her skirt needing her to fix
it to tell history it made a mistake see
daddies are supposed to be forever and
bleeding out and leaving should never
have been an option and the gnashing of
baby teeth and the fundus mac of a
nation’s grief when all Coretta wanted
– remember what laughing felt like when
Martin made her do it and what dreaming
felt like when Martin made her do it and
what faith felt like and what hope felt
like and the moments that were replete
with parable and possibility and she
still believed she could attach and they
all lived happily ever after
at the end
so now for the gathered faithful for the
ones whose blood moves relentlessly on
for the ones who wish to be important
and the ones who know they already are
for the ones who craned their necks over
the sharp edges of midnight and dream
their impossible lives can be fat with a
sugared revolution I know you I know
you’ve been keeping stars in your eyes
and I know daggers have been at your
throats I know you practice the
forgetting of fear too the ones who were
never told that they are worthy of every
good and perfect thing because maybe you
don’t pray to the God you grew up with
or maybe you didn’t fall in love with
the boy you were supposed to or in some
cases any boy at all I know it ain’t
easy
I know how hard you try to live a life
with enough people in it who will look
you in the eye and call you by your name
I know you never meant to be so symbolic
so sacrificial all of you with your
faith that all of this has been a
rehearsal some strange experiment and
suffering listen you’re not victims not
charity cases not histories bad luck
accidents so to the holding on ones the
soon and very soon ones just praise
praise your body and the way you woke up
this morning praise the miracle and the
mess praise the language you were born
with and the ones you are learning
praise the opening of the gates
raise the child you were and the adult
you are becoming praise the becoming
praise the journey praised the fight
praise the wherewithall praise the
riding of wind without asking permission
praise praise the universe in your
ribcage praise the trench that taught
you about darkness and praised the day
you danced in the light
praise the laughter that lives in your
belly
praise the gardens you can plant in your
bones praise the bamboo your spine can
become praise the stories you kept and
the ones you didn’t praise your
resurrection praise your fists
in the way you do not use them praise
your fists and the way you know how to
use them
praise your mouth your wide-open mouth
for how Confessional it is your straight
back your unbowed head praise the atoms
and cells that make your body Cathedral
and praise the otherworldly algorithm
that is your heart especially that
revolution is the sound of your heart
still beating so praise
you
[Applause]
there was nothing symbolic about Martin
Luther King being shot no metaphor could
capture the sting a community felt when
yet another assassination tore at the
resolve of folk who lived in their heads
and dreamed of someday and one day a
bullet can punctuate a movement but I
don’t think about that day not even when
my son comes marching with images of the
man embellished in crayon and the kind
of exuberance that only youthfulness and
naivete can sustain he wants to tell me
about the dream Martin had and the evil
in the world that took it he runs it all
down for me wide-eyed and mortified in
these conversations with history where
great men who dared to jut out were
struck down and the gross and
proprieties of it all and the incredible
immorality of it all and the needless
‘no sand senselessness of it all can’t
believe how damn ungodly we were he
needs me to do something about it
to wrestle the past down into fairytales
and attach and they all lived happily
ever after at the end but I don’t think
about that day or the man who steadied
his hand shouldered his rifle and put
Martin in his scope a man who woke up
that morning and ate his eggs and drank
his coffee with a mission statement
curdling his veins a man who knew he
would take a life that day a big life a
bigger than can be believed life because
all life is bigger than can be believed
and how maybe he showered in silence you
know feeling powerful and intentional
and whoever loved him maybe kissed his
cheek and said some not at all epic
thing to him as he was leaving like hey
don’t forget to pick up some milk on
your way in and how he nodded and knew
he would obligate history to remember
him steeped in his own vast set of
politics and platforms he set his jaw
against the hubris of history and he
squeezed but I don’t think about that
day or the one that preceded it
when Coretta must have felt something
catching her back that heavy their steps
and pulled her lip down must have gazed
as she did every morning at the man she
married and been struck dumb by how
unlucky they were to be talking out loud
about freedom and what happens when
people start believing and the women who
hung the hopes they had for an entire
generation on the sermons of a man
Coretta married because he made her last
not the tattered Bible earmarked and
underlined under his arm but because he
made her laugh a deep and rollin laugh
that moved her to girlishness and wet
her mouth and smiles naw I don’t think
about that day or the one after it
when Coretta must have had locusts in
her belly and could see neither
mountaintop nor Promised Land over her
children’s wailing their small hands
pulling at her skirt needing her to fix
it to tell history it made a mistake see
daddies are supposed to be forever and
bleeding out and leaving should never
have been an option and the gnashing of
baby teeth and the fundus mac of a
nation’s grief when all Coretta wanted
– remember what laughing felt like when
Martin made her do it and what dreaming
felt like when Martin made her do it and
what faith felt like and what hope felt
like and the moments that were replete
with parable and possibility and she
still believed she could attach and they
all lived happily ever after
at the end
so now for the gathered faithful for the
ones whose blood moves relentlessly on
for the ones who wish to be important
and the ones who know they already are
for the ones who craned their necks over
the sharp edges of midnight and dream
their impossible lives can be fat with a
sugared revolution I know you I know
you’ve been keeping stars in your eyes
and I know daggers have been at your
throats I know you practice the
forgetting of fear too the ones who were
never told that they are worthy of every
good and perfect thing because maybe you
don’t pray to the God you grew up with
or maybe you didn’t fall in love with
the boy you were supposed to or in some
cases any boy at all I know it ain’t
easy
I know how hard you try to live a life
with enough people in it who will look
you in the eye and call you by your name
I know you never meant to be so symbolic
so sacrificial all of you with your
faith that all of this has been a
rehearsal some strange experiment and
suffering listen you’re not victims not
charity cases not histories bad luck
accidents so to the holding on ones the
soon and very soon ones just praise
praise your body and the way you woke up
this morning praise the miracle and the
mess praise the language you were born
with and the ones you are learning
praise the opening of the gates
raise the child you were and the adult
you are becoming praise the becoming
praise the journey praised the fight
praise the wherewithall praise the
riding of wind without asking permission
praise praise the universe in your
ribcage praise the trench that taught
you about darkness and praised the day
you danced in the light
praise the laughter that lives in your
belly
praise the gardens you can plant in your
bones praise the bamboo your spine can
become praise the stories you kept and
the ones you didn’t praise your
resurrection praise your fists
in the way you do not use them praise
your fists and the way you know how to
use them
praise your mouth your wide-open mouth
for how Confessional it is your straight
back your unbowed head praise the atoms
and cells that make your body Cathedral
and praise the otherworldly algorithm
that is your heart especially that
revolution is the sound of your heart
still beating so praise
you
[Applause]
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