Chorus

by Saul Williams

  “Happiness!”

  It was one of those days, where everything lines up in the city.

  The music from cars driving by moves in step with

  young people boppin’ their heads.

  The sun bounces from window to window

  brightening the shade while the smells from

  the various nearby eateries choose not to compete,

  instead opting

  to unify in the name of . . .

  “I was born like y’all”

  he continued.

  “I don’t think I need to explain, and everything else is history. Like the essays of a wanderer with a full heart and warm mind. Breathing has been a pleasure from day one. From this very action I’ve been brought to you. My purpose? To clarify the feelings that you’ve always understood in the far reaches of your sub-conscious, sub-zero recesses of the subways of the forgotten corners of your mind. My heart’s been lifted to share the opportunity of your hopes and dreams. Mine have been remembered in the reflections of the crystal balls you call your eyes. I am a child playing on a jungle gym, running carelessly in the afternoon shade, not afraid to keep going until I collapse from the joy of satisfactory exhaustedness. And it’s obvious to me that you are no different. In fact I can hear your heartbeats skipping Double Dutch as we speak.

  “It’s important to note that I am not hiding. That although I find it my personal mission to run through the wind while the river is running beside me, I am not running from anything. I am flying towards my future and fully a part of the present. As I look at what appears to be a tear building up in the outside corner of your left eye, I want to be clear. Make no mistake my brothers and sisters; I’ve seen some of the darkest moments that pupils could possibly bring into focus. I never pretend differently. I’m not frozen into submission by events that have already passed, implanting them, with my invitation, squarely in the center of my tomorrow. I will have none of that. And this is the only thing in life that I can control. My lung capacity is temporary but my ability to carve a new path remains infinite as long as my name remains Happiness.”

  We all soaked it in mesmerized by the words of a stranger, slightly embarrassed at our obvious vulnerability.

  “I love all of you”

  He said with enough conviction that it felt completely sincere.

  “I love men and women and the more the merrier”

  Each of us blushed at his clear lack of inhibition.

  “I’m here right now with you my friends, aware of all of the complexities that make up the human existence. Or at least as many aspects as I’ve been introduced to thus far. If I had only one sentence to say, merely a handful of words to share, I would say remember me. I apologize if my thoughts come across as arrogant. That is certainly not my intention. It’s just that I am very certain that I am you. And if my intuition is true then you will never forget yourself. And you will cherish each other. And if I never see you again, it won’t matter because I will be remembered in the beat of your heart, your reflection in the mirror, in the reaction of your cells as you raise your hand to touch your cheek. Don’t worry anymore. Because tomorrow is alive in this unique second and you are alive. The same way you have always been. I expect that it feels different but the difference lies in the possibilities, not in your present smiles. Your light-heartedness is the consecutive addition of a million separate moments and they’ve convened with us on this afternoon at this intersection of concrete and flesh. And we wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  Each of us looked at each other and we realized the moment was about to end. Our conditioning compelled us to try to hold on but our collective identity had already discarded expectations as afterthoughts. It was as if we were standing in front of a fire, except the flames were the mingling of identities on a city street corner. It took a second for us to notice that Happiness was already on his way. He began to run and he yelled:

  “Remember Happiness Santiago” as he jumped and gently kicked a concrete wall that propelled him towards the distance. His light feet and curly hair were tattooed to the portraits in front of us, long after his presence was beyond our sight.

  . . . I remember that day. The day we met Happiness on a non descript city street corner on a random autumn afternoon. And I remind you to remember him too, not that you could have possibly forgotten. It’s just that we have a handful of moments when time stands still and waits for us to choose our destination. And I ask you to run through the wind and fly towards the future while fully involved in the present.

  91

  Everything is enchanted here.

  I always stagger when I think. I amble up the mountain

  as though I were sleeping but really I’m

  in deep conversation with myself, trying to feel

  the presence of miners and poets.

  It is difficult to see yesterday, but the future

  depends on this work,

  me marveling at the falls, climbing

  the inclines and staying on a trail.

  Here my shadow is a musical masterpiece.

  I greet my fellow hikers with the tenderness

  of a 19th century French gentleman,

  strolling Boulevard des Capucines.

  If I had a hat, I’d tug its brim and dip

  my head a little. I, like kale, have come

  to the mountain to consume the trees for the custody

  of my skin. The foot is all heart. It scrambles

  like a squirrel to prove its tenacity.

  I only wish I were presented with a wish

  and that she were as lovely as this water rushing

  over the rocks and that she’d promise

  not to put me to sleep with her reports

  of other people’s dreams. I’d have a way

  with her nipples, and she’d have her way

  with my spine. We’d touch each other like

  stained glass. O, foolish Intoxicants! the snows

  on the caps are sad, feeling left behind.

  They want our last words. The cables

  of the gondola make very little noise,

  not like me gulping mineral water from a plastic bottle

  so I can make myself sparkly for Heaven.

  92

  It’s almost certainly impossible

  To appreciate the sheer abstract beauty of an explosion, but I like to picture it

  As an intricate game of pinball: a single atom suddenly propelled forward

  Bounces back and forth shedding electrons on the way,

  And hurtles through the gaps in what we think is a solid thing, a unit, an unalterable

  whole, a grain of gunpowder, say.

  Until suddenly – multiball.

  With a flash of multicolored light, the others come alive, and then

  Things become much too fast to follow.

  They turn restless, and frantic, and twitchy, and as they twist and tumble together they

  leave behind them trails of searing light and weave them into a fiery flower which you

  can only see bloom once.

  It’s almost certainly unbearable

  To try and hear the music in the noise of an explosion, but I like to imagine it

  As that moment in a song when the bass line finally kicks in, after the introductory

  Clicks and clacks of the drumsticks smack the edge of the snare and the closed hi-hat.

  And yes, you’ve heard too many songs not to know what’s coming,

  But when the muffled powerchord finally bursts out with overwhelming power

  Triggered by the detonating kick drum,

  The sound reaches down through your throat and grips your stomach tightly.

  You cannot be ready, you can never be ready for this.

  It’s almost certainly immaterial,

  What the weather was like at the time of an explosion, but in my mind,

  I see an old sepia snapshot of a perfect summer’s afternoon, with the weather all the better


  Because you have to supply your own blue for the sky,

  Conjure up your own white for the clouds,

  Your own faded red for the crumbling bricks, your own brown

  For the strange stains on the pavement.

  There are no people in the picture, the exposure was too long,

  At most, here and there, a blur, a hint of a presence:

  a hand that lingered on a doorknob, a hesitating foot.

  But no more.

  It’s almost certainly irrelevant,

  One life lost in an explosion; but I like to believe that somewhere,

  Someone refuses to acknowledge numbers like

  Two hundred thousand or eighty-five percent, and instead

  They chronicle meticulously

  The misplaced cobblestones,

  The frantic flight of startled birds,

  The words still legible on the singed letters spilled from a leather bag

  The balletic grace of a body flying through the air,

  Trailing blood like an afterthought,

  On a perfect summer afternoon.

  They will know she was twenty-nine

  That the day before, she had written a love letter to her husband

  That she hadn’t seen her two sons for a week

  That she woke up light-headed that day, believing against all evidence

  That things might just work out this time.

  And I like to imagine that just before the shrapnel hit

  She stopped with her hand on a doorknob,

  Balancing on one foot,

  Thinking she had just heard

  The beginning of a song.

  93

  94

  95

  96

  97

  98

  99

  Add your voice.

  poets

  Strugglers Quarry Beau Sia

  Thank Goodness Andrea Gibson

  I’ll Tell You the Truth That Hasn’t Happened Bekah Dinnerstein

  Rivers Biafra Guillory

  Silent Jericho Molly Jones

  Hold Kristiana Rae Colón

  Portrait Def Sound

  White Art Kevin Coval

  Bloody Lilith Ciara Miller

  A Bus With Wings Jessica Care Moore

  For Erykah Keisha Monique Simpson

  The Surrendering Meghann Plunkett

  Libya Suheir Hammad

  Lilith-Abi Rhiannon Reyes

  For Those We Haven’t Lost Alex Jones

  The Ocean and the Sky Rebecca Rushbrook

  Just Another Bump In The Road Jennifer McBroom

  Rubble Mirlande Jean-Gilles

  Bone Black Bones Porschia L. Baker

  Whips Heli Slunga

  Girl Bands Jesus Garay

  Shug Avery Chas Jackson

  My Perfect Silence Regie Cabico

  Bridgette Anderson Amber Tamblyn

  Truth Blooms Kelly Baker

  Non-Verbal Learning Disorder Bree Rolfe

  Love Staceyann Chin

  Gender Se7en

  No Homo Gazal Geoff Kagan Trenchard

  I Hope You Know This Makes You a Fag Jude Bower

  Fruit Adam Lowe

  Talkin’ with My Mother Gala Mukomolov

  Gorgeous Disaster Amir Sulaiman

  Finals Justin Long-Moton

  The Salvation We Greet with Horror Jussi Jaakola

  To Be Brought to Water Ricky Laurentiis

  God Over Lunch Mike Ladd

  2 Truths and a Lie Jennifer-Leigh Oprihory

  Lunar Flora Sarah Martin

  Science Says Erica Miriam Fabri

  When It Matters Adam Falkner

  Bayuk Rio Cortez

  India Trio Sarah Kay

  Ramadan Reflection Ainee Fatima

  Woman Friend C. L. McFadyen

  His Portable Pale Amber Reskey

  It Could Be Words Taylor Mali

  The Crow Flies Straight Quinn Patrick Kelly

  Sidewalk Neighbor Taijhet Nyobi

  Apuckerlipse Now Joan O’ f(Art) (AKA Kali Liberick)

  Of His Bones Are Coral Made Jacob Rakovan

  Disclaimer/In Case of Emergency Don’t Kwan Booth

  The Rose Has Teeth Terrance Hayes

  A Note Bent in Amber Peter Carlaftes

  Wiping Up the Dance Floor in Alphabet City Patricia Smith

  Yolk Corey Zeller

  A History of Violence April Jones

  Air Max Barry Grass

  My July Rachel Trignano

  I’ll Leave This Where You’ll Find It Lauren Kaminski

  Leeches C. Elliot

  As I Enter the Night Etaïnn Zwer

  Across the Street From the Whitmore Home for Girls, 1949 Rachel McKibbens

  Oh Ladies of the Light Shanita Bigelow

  Rules of Engagement Jennifer Falu

  End of Book Poem Jasper Faolan

  Into Darkness Connor Pierce

  The Whiskey Trail Glen Byford

  GloryBox Didier Charlemagne

  Breathe Slow My Parent Brett Bevell

  Seated by the Well of Limpid Joys Sibylla Barthes

  Scavenged Tongues and Buried Whispers Eden Jeffries

  Kissing Caits Meissner

  Something Beautiful Abiodun Oyewole

  KinShip Queen Godis

  July IV Sharlie Messinger

  7 Moments Of Revolution Kathleen McLeod

  Notes Of The Ghostlike Bonafide Rojas

  Handstitch Carlos Andrés Goméz

  A Trigger Down Dominic Viti

  Breakfast in Blame Emily Rose Larsen

  Transient Joshua Kleinberg

  Connections Matt Mason

  Mombasa David Cairns

  Guerilla Garden Writing Poem Inua Ellams

  Franklin Ave. & Anthony St., Newark Tara Betts

  The Circadian Enigma Ricky Ray

  Because Ila Mira Kavanagh

  We Have the Right to Vincent Toro

  Happiness Victorio Reyes

  Sierra Nevada Major Jackson

  Almost Certainly Bohdan Piasecki

  The Poem in Red Saul Williams

  Acknowledgments

  Over the years, I have encountered thousands of poets who have handed me their work, asking me to read it, and in some cases, to find ways to help them get published. This book comes as a result of those daring, thoughtful, and important voices that I have encountered while wondering how I might share the opportunities afforded me, while also staying true to my own creative vision.

  The idea of editing an anthology of modern, living poets was intriguing, but not intriguing enough, for one simple reason: I seldom read anthologies. Thus, the idea of creating a literary mixtape was born, where I made an attempt to weave poems and voices together as a DJ would, noting the tempo, mood, and theme of each piece and attempting to find a smooth way of blending into the next. Of course, it was no easy task and there is no way possible that I would have been able to complete the vision without a great deal of help. First I would like to thank the hundreds of poets who saw fit to respond to my call out through social media networks, to collaborate with me on an idea of questionable results. We made no mention of subject or theme and poets were free to submit two poems on any topic they chose. We received over 7,000 poems! Obviously, we couldn’t place every poem in the book, but the intent remains for everyone to feel included as part of this Chorus. Your voices and work are crucial to my own, and to our times. I hope that you all see fit to continue expressing your visions, ideas, dissatisfaction, angst, and all that makes poetry serve as a vital essence of a culture. On my end, I was lucky enough to enlist the help and guidance of my two developmental editors, Aja Monet and Dufflyn Lammers. This book would not be possible if it were not for the long hours they spent reading through poems, offering suggestions, communicating with poets, and waiting for an often noncommunicative me to respond to their queries. Teamwork is truly the name of the game and I am lucky enough to be supported by a team of hardworking visionarie
s who don’t say “yes” to my every idea, but certainly support the manifestation of many of my dreams. My literary agent, Charlotte Gusay, is as rock-and-roll as they come, with treasure troves of stories and ideas. I would like to thank her for all of the time, hard work, and belief she invested into this project (and those that came before). I sincerely hope that many of the poets included will one day be lucky enough to have a Charlotte Gusay on their team. My MTV Books editor, Jacob Hoye, is guilty by association and daring enough to have remained such an essential part of my literary efforts. Thanks, man. I’d also like to thank my enthusiastic editor, Ed Schlesinger, at Gallery/S&S who took over for Jennifer Heddle, and is as kind and open as she was. Thank you, also, to the staff of S&S for their hard work and participation, including Mary McCue, our publicist, and Steve Fallert in the Legal department.

  Lastly, I would like to thank Sol Guy and Dave Guenette for their expertise, hard work, and vision. You’ll be hearing more about them as we move forward. Finding the right team may take years to take shape, but when it does, watch out!

  And, oh yeah, Fuck You, to whomever deserves it. You ain’t shit, punk. #justsayin

  Saulito Bonaparte

  Paris 2012

  PHOTO BY ANDREW GURA

  Acclaimed poet and musician Saul Williams’s open-mic escapades with the Nuyorican Poets peaked at Sundance when Slam won the Grand Jury Prize, and the art world celebrated the arrival of a whole new kind of talent. He defied his genre’s precious reputation and tore voraciously into the guts of life, groping after the exalted and transcendent sex sensations that make it all worth living. His early success led to collaborations with the likes of Erykah Badu, Nas, The Roots and Zack de la Rocha, and, descended as much from KRS-One and Public Enemy as Allen Ginsberg and Amiri Baraka, he was a new kind of poet. With each of Williams’s great successes has come abrupt change. He has pinball-bounced from Morehouse philosophy scholar to cerebral street sermonizer to breakout indie actor, from hallucinatory hip-hop alchemist to dreadlocked mohawk rockstar, vibing Nine Inch Nails, scurrying across tones, modes, and media to defy categorization. He has read published poetry volumes to opera house audiences with full orchestral backing. He has contributed to the New York Times, voiced Jean-Michel Basquiat in Downtown 81, and cut records with Rick Rubin and Trent Reznor. Throughout all these chaotic ventures, Saul Williams has been one steady thing: an uncompromising voice determined to tap the adrenaline center of his existence with any tool he can get his hands on. Saul Williams is the author of four books of poetry. He lives in Paris. His website: www.saulwilliams.com