George Jackson, a revolutionary hero who changed the world from a segregation cell. He was assasinated in 1971 by the prison guards of Soledad State Prison. The official story is that he was killed in an escape attempt after Stephen Bingham, a white socialist attorney from a rich family, smuggled in a gun during a visit with Jackson. They have never produced evidence to support their story, but they don't have to.

GEORGE JACKSON: You didn’t bring it, did you?
STEPHEN BINGHAM: I did. It’s hidden in the tape recorder. This is the day you will taste freedom. Do you remember what it's like to breathe outside air?
JACKSON: You stupid fucking idiot. I don't know you—I didn’t ask for this. Do you know what it's like in here? They’re waiting to kill me, looking for any excuse to put a bullet down my throat. And now you want me to wave a gun in their face?
BINGHAM: It's a fucking tyranny; they've had you too long. It's time. You just said it—you have to get out of here before they kill you. There's a car waiting out front, and a plane waiting fifteen minutes out in the country. You'll be in Cuba this afternoon.
JACKSON: I didn't ask for this. I don’t need your help, white devil, and I don’t trust your white face. I don’t need you; I’ve been in this cage since I was fourteen, most of the time alone in seg. And now, I've made them afraid, I’ve spoken out, they know they can’t control me. I embarrass them. And so they can’t wait to kill me, they'll take any excuse. I know the psychology of these pigs, and I have power over them, and I scare them. But as soon as I wave a goddamn gun in their face, they’ll kill me.
BINGHAM: I didn't do this for me, I didn’t do it for you even. I'm talking about the movement, here, the revolution.
JACKSON: Fuck you! Look at your skin, man, you can't hide from yourself. If the revolution came, you'd be killed, you have no idea what it is to be a black man in America? you ever been in prison? Come on, you ever been in prison?
BINGHAM: I've seen lots of prisons, I'm an attorney.
JACKSON: You're a parasite. You make your living off these hellholes, just like these guards. You think you're a revolutionary? You're trendy, you think you’re cool. I can see you in some fucking college bar spouting socialist rhetoric, talking about the revolution, to some blonde girl, and I'm sitting on a hard cot in segregation. You're a fucking parasite living on the black man's back.
BINGHAM: I gave up everything for the revolution, man. I can't help how I was born—I'm white, it's not my fucking fault. But every day since then, I’ve been working to break the system, to bust you out of here, and all my other brothers, too. My father disowned me for my politics, you know? And now I'm trying to support myself as a public defender, scraping by. And here, today, look at what I've done for you. I've given you my life right here. And I don't know you. I read your books, but I don't know you, and I’ve given up my life for you. Do you want this gun? This is your moment of decision. Don’t put it on me.
JACKSON: You're a tool. Give it to me...Now, you best get the fuck out of here. Head for the border. Maybe I'll see you in Cuba.

GUARD! I'm taking control here now, give me your weapon!

   [ POSTED BY Jed @ 7:53 PM ] [ ]

I editedit,editeddedtit:

The sewers are veins with shit for blood,
and the city only ever inhales.
Trucks fly on fourlane superarteries
delivering loads of Doritos to gaping mouths.
Welcome to the Kingdom of Us:
rotting concrete,
where we could have made anything,
could have been humans on earth
but were too cheap.
so content with plastic,
metaphysics,
and gutters.
summon the charcoal and chimneys,
summon the gas stoves and microwaves.
we will eat tonight, don’t worry about that,
keep shopping.
keep shooting.
And someday, we’ll move out to the suburbs, dear.

-
my fluid seeks sewers to feed myself, my city, but black rotting streets destroyed my undercarriage,

the highways pulse with commodities;

my house rests between opposing offices;

I can look through my windows to my attorney.

his aggression opposes what in a domestic animal: cold open space, large enough to work with isolation?

the city is the possession, the men in it middlemanaging, cubicles.

You have to consume real estate to be human, distance, square footed, in which a beloved kitchenette is heaven, for example.
-

My sewers, my blood, I felt my city around upon me rumbling down upon the long high superways,
I felt my mouths crying for Doritos,
we exhaled into overbrimming cash registers
that can now buy anything,
can only buy us.
Welcome to my house, gridded and grey,
where we could have had a future, we could have been here before,
but we were too cheap.
Give me your kitsch! your scams! your hungry!
Don’t worry, inhale, your fiery riots will wait for tomorrow.
we are an island of torment in a sea of white picket topped waved American Dream.
-
Plumbers tie the city together
so we can herd ourselves through the streets
avoiding the eyes of passing humanity.
Our faucets rip off our outer skins every morning
so naked waterfall flesh
cannot hide behind dirt reality
while beneath our plodding feet
our true skin of grime
eats away at sewer walls

   [ POSTED BY Jed @ 9:31 AM ] [ ]

The beast she'll find
burning his mind
bathing in fear
ascendant atman
and the beast she must ride
inside
to see herself at last,
and, seeing, the beast
cocoons and growns
finds peace
stillness
in the silence
of skin
and din
of roaring spirits.
the beast I ride
flowing inside the tides of veins
feeding it, burning air
wastes of tired blood retreat
into my stinging chest.
The beast I contain
with ink and busywork
breathing grey air
and falling in love.
The beast I maintain
with poems howled from the deep
with the tepid bassline of mountains
and falling in love.

   [ POSTED BY Jed @ 11:27 AM ] [ ]