Magkasama '05 (unfinished?)

i frankly don't remember if i got around to finishing this piece but i did use a substantial amount in my performance at Magkasama

i gaze upon flag draped balikbayan boxes filled with the fruits of their labor
bullet ridden corpses
as they're unloaded off the plane
my hand rests along side the brow of my eye
and i ask myself
how did we get this far
how did we get to a point where we can no longer communicate
where flags and banners are placed higher than truth
where our innermost feelings must be buried deep in secret
trapped in a so called land of freedom
we're forced to repress ourselves
or lay open to the slings and slander
backed by the thunderous applause of the whole
a society where we seek to better only the self
to ignore the thousands, with thousands of stories themselves
whose daily interactions shape our lives
they say no one is an island
yet we're forced to be alone
to hide ourselves from the truth
why do we keep doing this?
why must we live not by our passions
but by what's practical
why must practicality be linked to dollar signs
and our lives be consumed by our own consumerism
hip hop stop
you are no longer the her i used to love
you have long since been engendered with a masculinity that abhors biyuti
abhors the female within, the mother to your mother
the lola, the abuela,
your misogynistic homophobic ways have enforced a patriarchical society that worships phallic shaped tombs rather than wombs
through your strive you've lost your strength
you are no longer concerned with the daily travails of the masses
but instead concerned with conforming to complacency
you have dropped what's hot in favor of a more simple path
you have allowed yourself to be consumed to a level where even the mos def of us have once again painted our faces black to sell cars and clothes
your so called underground has been driven above to the mainstreams and rivers of a commercialized globe
you were once a revolutionary movement that now merely revolves in circles
you have been removed from the concrete streets and beats that are your source
and have now been trapped and packaged in a form that can be felt from the confort of your very own suburban home
as the cyclical course of time repeats
it is now time to turn to the radical
the root of the source the mother of all
where art thou o queen of life
fresh flowers bloom in your wake
while the flesh is born anew
and the soul transcends to plains shaped by you
bathed in hues unseen to the naked eye of the storm
seen only by the heart and felt by the ear
suffering under the discriminilization of our bodies

not done

May 21, 2005