Siren Song Like a War Cry

a love letter
August 3, 2009, 9:26 am
Filed under: romantic bullshit

A better world is possible. 


Stare at those words. 


Look at them like you’re seeing your lover stumble blindly from the gates of prison to see the sun for the first time in days. The bars on our windows are invisible. Another world is possible. A world where our children will never be survivors, they won’t have rape and fear ingrained into their veins, channeled through their mothers cord like survival. A world where police don’t come into our houses in the dark of night and interrupt our sleep with the sounds of expended copper shells rattling our kitchen floor. A world with no borders, no countries, no weapons of mass destruction poised to begin the apocalypse with the stroke of a pen. A world where our gardens are not overthrown to protect the owner class that holds property above nourishment and growth. A world where children’s bellies don’t bloat from hunger and teenagers don’t carry military issue semi-automatic weapons at home or abroad. A world where race, gender, class and prison aren’t things that are connected to one another inexplicably and as inevitably as a hurricane. A world where we can trust our friends, after so many have rolled on us, turned on us, rooted betrayal deep in our bones that lead us to forever doubt the people that we yearn to trust. 


A world where we can begin to heal.


But this is not what our world looks like. Our world looks like war and terror. It looks like fear. It looks like rape. It looks like starvation and humiliation, it looks like fascist presidencies and corporate interests. It looks like puppet strings and infiltration. It looks like forced penetration and suicide seeds. It looks like strip mining, deforestation and extinction. It looks like the end of the world, the end of the species, the end of everything. It looks like nuclear war and hatred. It looks like oppression and exploitation, furthering and furthering and furthering corporate greed until it extends on ad nauseam with infinity and death. It looks like unmarked graves and sunken bodies, it looks like famine and disease. It looks like medication thats too expensive and inadequate diagnosis. It looks like sadness, grief, attacks. It looks like hate crimes and fascists. 


Wake up. 


Get out of bed. Look in the mirror. It starts with you. It has always started with you. The revolution begins at home, begins with the person looking back at you, it starts in your shadows, your fears, and your courage. It isn’t in a dumpster in the back ally of a city that never sleeps. Its not in a squat with unkept electricity and needles littering the floor. The revolution is in your next door neighbor, your mother, and your history professor. It is in finding your comrades, building ties. It is in vigilance, militancy and rejection of capitalist values. It isn’t hiding around the corner of your local anarchist cafe. It isn’t written in between the lines of safer space policies. It is in your raised fist and the weapons already heavy in your hands. It is marches that ignore government permits, ignore tax brackets, it is in the riot, in the fires, in the union. It is in fighting for your life, and that of the whole species. 

The revolution is in your heart. 

Stand with me on barricades built by fallen soldiers and corporate executives. 


None shall pass. 


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