The late Jayne Cortez spits fire, reminding us of the need to fight, resist, organize, and unify to seize power. You should read her NOW.
Jayne Cortez (May 10, 1934–December 28, 2012) was a poet, a performance artist, an activist, a Black Arts Movement blueswoman steeped in free jazz and surrealism, a pan-African feminist and an anti-imperialist whose uncompromised voice and visiom stalked the imperial highways. She released a dozen books of poetry and as many albums, led The Firespitters (with her son, Deanardo Coleman, on drums), founded the Watts Repertory Company and Bola Press, co-founded the Organization of Women Writers of Africa, and was the moving spirit behind the legendary literary gathering Yari Yari : Black Women Writers and the Future, held in New York City in 1997. Born in Fort Huachuca, Arizona, Cortez lived in Los Angeles, New York, and Dakar – the place she felt was her home. “Cortez’s life, touched the entire black world,” the poet E. Ethelbert Miller once wrote, while acknowledging that, despite her influence and energy, she has not received the recognition she deserves. To speak of the “power” of her poetry does not convey that very power. Read it. Hear it. And you will understand how much we need Jayne Cortez right now.
There It Is
Jayne Cortez
My friend
they don't care
if you're an individualist a leftist a rightist
a shithead or a snake
They will try to exploit you absorb you confine you
disconnect you isolate you or kill you
And you will disappear into your own rage
into your own insanity
into your own poverty
into a word a phrase a slogan a cartoon
and then ashes
The ruling class will tell you that
there is no ruling class
as they organize their liberal supporters into
white supremacist lynch mobs
organize their children into
ku klux klan gangs
organize their police into
killer cops
organize their propaganda into
a device to ossify us with angel dust
preoccupy us with western symbols in
african hair styles
inoculate us with hate
institutionalize us with ignorance
hypnotize us with a monotonous sound designed
to make us evade reality and stomp our lives away
And we are programmed to self-destruct
to fragment
to get buried under covert intelligence operations of
unintelligent committees impulsed toward death
And there it is
The enemies polishing their penises between
oil wells at the pentagon
the bulldozers leaping into demolition dances
the old folks dying of starvation
the informers wearing out shoes looking for crumbs
the life blood of the earth almost dead in
the greedy mouth of imperialism
And my friend
they don't care
if you're an individualist
a leftist a rightist
a shithead or a snake
They will spray you with
a virus of legionnaire's disease
fill your nostrils with
the swine flu of their arrogance
stuff your body into a tampon of
toxic shock syndrome
try to pump all the resources of the world
into their own veins
and fly off into the wild blue yonder to
pollute another planet
And if we don't fight
if we don't resist
if we don't organize and unify and
get the power to control our own lives
Then we will wear
the exaggerated look of captivity
the stylized look of submission
the bizarre look of suicide
the dehumanized look of fear
and the decomposed look of repression
forever and ever and ever
And there it is
Jayne Cortez, "There It Is" from On the Imperial Highway (Hanging Loose Press, 2009)
Having not yet won real power over the police, this is no time for a lull or a truce -- it’s time to sharpen our political instruments and deepen the mass movement’s social penetration.
Black rebellion brings insecurity to those in power, as editors, mayors and even long dead criminals are being called to account.
The protests in Hong Kong are led by an assortment of US-backed proxies who have separation from China as their principle goal.
Without justification, Louisville cops snuffed out the lives of Breonna Taylor and David McAtee, drawing that city into the national vortex of protest.
He so wide you can’t go ‘round him He so low you can’t go under him He so low that when he go High an ant can’t get under him; a rattlesnake’s shake’s
