Warren Buchholz
Our American Dream
I wrote this poem long ago and decided to make a video for it.
I see the eyes of mad men draw blood across rainbow-washed flags,
decrying love from metal machines
and howling rattles of piercing trysts that loom over sobbing ghosts
who have died something more painful than death:
not of bodies shutting down but souls crying out for stolid hands
reaching into a darkness that bellows out
war cries of redemption and solidarity;
a justice forms the flames of a hundred thousand flickering candles
on sidewalks and street corners,
marches to the sound of heartbeats,
internalizes hollowed promises of maybes and tomorrows
in a crowd of ringing phones without answers,
who struggle to understand the last messages s c a t te red into cyberspace
as spent shells spread across tattered clothes
as the last touch of fingertips caress cold cheeks
silence falls to those who question.
I watch Siblings drape flags across their bodies
those who kiss in bathroom stalls fearing assault while
weapons publicly point to their heads as they hold hands;
beaten with words and fists,
who expected safe spaces to stay intact
to freely be Themselves where love can explore
bodies and lips intertwined on waxed dance floors
whispered lustful poems in open ears
who planned to marry and live together until old
only to receive joint funeral marches
who celebrate existence instead of hate
and stride proudly through streets of glitter
who ride floats into the glow of setting suns
Where Justice swarms streets as sparks ignite darkened silhouettes
near street lamps lost within flames of empathy
who transcend marches across the country to Capitol Hill
who wonder questions we’ve all be thinking
I witness the minds of Our generation madden from injustice
who stitch together remaining threads of multi-coloured twine
who watch Heroes from past generations
slowly dissolve in textbooks
who demand answers from the men in paper towers--
infallible to polished rhetoric and smiles that relished insincerity
men and monsters lunge for ten minutes of fame
stoned journalists confront the jarring delight of pornographic melancholy
students beg to survive one more day
who know no beings can stand in the way of peace
who relish continual faith in humanity
who dream a future of aspiration
who can begin to find peace within Themselves
this is for the Survivors who won’t be silenced
this is for the Families who bleed loss through their veins
this is for the Friends who wait for one more phone call
this is for the Siblings who call for change
this is for the Allies who support the cause
this is for a Future free of hate
this is for the silent moments We have in Our hearts
this is for the People We have loved and lost
this is for the Justice of living life.
this is for an unending fight for survival.
This--
This is for love
(Warren Buchholz, 2016)
