Stolen

For anyone who has ever struggled...never forget

I stole this poem from the voiceless
From the forgotten, struggling, and homeless
I stole this poem from every life
Cut short by violence and domestic strife
I stole this poem from the innocence of Leonard Peltier and Mumia Abu Jamal
From every political prisoner whose name I can't recall
And anyone who ever died from AIDS
Or wrists bled dry by razor blades
I stole this poem from every single refugee
Whose land was destroyed by this democracy
From invasions of Panama, Haiti and Grenada
And the Cuban exile of the revolutionary Assata
I stole it from Brandon Teena and James Byrd
From every hate crime about which we've never heard
From immigrant workers and Operation Bootstrap
Every black called nigger or Mexican called wetback
From the gas chambers of Auschwitz
And cadaver-filled Iraqi death pits

I stole this poem from the ashes of bombed black churches
I stole this poem from every crack purchase
I stole this poem from four dead girls in Birmingham
I stole this poem from every enslaved African

Yes, yes, I stole this poem from the tattered dreams of MLK
And from the illegal detainees at Guantanamo Bay
From every child that grew up gay
And decided it was better to runaway
Than face a father's fist or mother's hate
Or to escape Matthew Shephard's fate
I stole this poem from villages bulldozed by Israel
And from every Palestinian ever killed
By the colonial ambitions and Zionist aspirations
Of that unlawful, racist, illegitimate nation
I stole this poem from Fred Hampton as he lay in bed
While bullets entered his sleeping head
From Sojourner Truth and Harriet Tubman
From every little girl who never had the chance to be a woman
I stole this poem from every lost fight for liberation
From the sabotaged movement for Puerto Rico as a free nation
And the blood that runs from the red, white, and blue
From every CIA sponsored anti-"Marxist" coup

I stole this poem from strange fruit hanging in trees
I stole this poem from experiments at Tuskegee
I stole this poem from thousands of interned Japanese
I stole this poem from millions of dead Vietnamese

I stole this poem from Jones Town and Cape Town
From Nat Turner and John Brown
The continued fight of Aung Sang Suu Kyi
For the realization of Burmese liberty
Dear God, I stole this poem from the working poor
From every brown sister called bitch, cunt, or whore
By brown men who should love them but instead lash out in fear
At a world that would rather that we not be here
I stole this poem from the crushed body of Rachel Corrie
Her death another chapter in Sharon's story
Beginning with genocide and homicide
And Moses' law by which he can't seem to abide
The clear commandment that "thou shall not kill"
And he continues to murder still

I stole this poem and wrote it as prophecy
That what has been will cease to be
The time has come for us to be free
And tear down the constructions of our enemies
To reclaim our histories, take back our lands
To arrive at victory anyway that we can
Either by Martin's or Malcolm's plan
I stole this poem, and I'm giving it back
To ready my people for the final attack
Against a corrupt system that must fall
If we're ever to have liberty and justice for all.

Shannon

For my little sister

Dear Shannon,

I read your email like a landmine
ripping through my mind
telling me not to worry
that bombs don't fall
far enough into camp to threaten you

except that once

that once when you were snatched
from Morpheus's land
by eruptions of rock and sand
and fear sending shock waves through your blood
I wish I could erase the worry from my face
and the tension as I brace myself every time
dead soldiers get their fifteen minutes of fame
in the daily obituaries
I look for your name and feel a sense of relief
when I thank God for my belief
that with faith and his divine power
you'll come home safely

I read your email like a landmine
ripping through my mind
my memories of you tattered, shredded
by nine years absence and phone call memories faded
your voice climbing over telephone wires
barbed with wondering if we'll ever see one another again
before we're old and gray
I don't know what to say
since I promised
that we'd be together soon
and no matter the distance or circumstance
you're my sister and I miss you
I want to write you back
tell you that I'm holding you with both hands
but my heart is filled with desert and
it's too heavy for me to keep in my chest
I know we're blessed that you're still alive
when so many of our people haven't survived
this call to war

I abhor the choice between supporting my kin
and the desire to win
in this fight against global tyranny
you see to me
the U.S. is the place in need of liberation
a nation buried under lies and built on the bones
of our grandmothers and grandfathers
bodies and minds
and all those others that came behind
us trying to pave the way
to the day when the content of our character
is beyond reproach
and we can say, we have overcome

but who cares about politics

when I'm worried about my little sis
and if she'll live to be the powerful woman
I know she's meant to be
I want to see that smile that looks like mine
And relive those times when we'd play pusoy*
at the kitchen table
and I was barely able to contain my laughter and joy
even when I lost

I read your email like a land mine
ripping through my mind
I want to tell you that we would have found a way
I would have paid
for your education
that you didn't have to put your life at risk
not for something like this
forced to take sides against people that look like you
but there is nothing that I can do
except continue in the streets demanding that they bring home
my sister
my beautiful, beautiful sister
sometimes the tears threaten to choke me
drown my tongue in saltwater sadness
at this madness that wasn't made by us
but you my sister are paying the price
for a crazy man's vice
and desire for power that is tearing apart
our family
and I want you to know that I'll be
doing whatever it takes to see
that we play card games together
poker with fake money made out of colored paper
you, me, Julius, and Jasmine
with Dad in the living room
and both of our Mothers too
because my little sister
I won't quit fighting until you come home
and please know that I love you.

*Pusoy is a card game poplar in the Philippines.

© 2004 Brandon Lacy Campos. From the Red CalacArts Publications chapbook ¿Under What Bandera? AntiWar Ofrendas from Minnesota y Califas.