Sunday Morning West Oakland
As the birds make their noises I ask myself questions.Why do we feel most alive when at war?The church sings hallelujah over and overacross the empty street. A small blond childis playing harmonica to a cat when I finda scrap of paper on my floor with an invitationto discuss a quote downtownin the plaza that has become the centerof the local occupation. In bold it reads“the role of the police is not to serve and protect the people.It is to serve and protect the system that rules over the people.”I realize that this is the first morningwithout helicopters circling the skylike giant angry pterodactyls. Now that the copshave taken a break from firing tear gasinto veterans' brains on 14th and BroadwayOakland is finally out of the news. The voices across the street rise louder in unison now“only love will save us, thank you Lord, thank you Lord.”I wonder if we can save ourselves. I tryto dedicate Sunday morningsto my version of the sacred. Today that is the memoryof strangers repeating each other's words, phrase by phrase,to a crowd of 3000 people assembledunder streetlights and stars. Todayit is unicorns smashing border walls, queersconfronting racism, the electric blueatmosphere after work, where Oakland's finest treeis untouched in the middle of the tent citywhere people hold a public forumon a miraculously warm Friday nightto discuss the words “occupy, de-colonize, liberate.” Is it possible we could winthis war against capital?The birds in the strangled palm tree out frontdon't know. They make nests. They raise young things.They don't have trouble remembering to sleepwhen they hear that Cairo is marchingon the US Embassy in solidaritywith our erupting town. Do they noticethe kids in golden capeshoping to save the world? The marching bandsoutside the city jail? Do they worrythat we live on stolen land? Do they knowmost of us cannot say who our ancestors were?Do they spend time thinking about how to flyin formation? My mission this morning will be to make us wingsout of words, out of cardboard and duct tapebecause we were not born with pairs of our own.Click here to listen to the poem:[audio http://www.turningwheelmedia.org/wp-content/uploads/2011/10/Sunday-Morning-West-Oakland.mp3]