"I am dead, dead, dead!
They cut out my heart in Stanleyville. They left my lungs in Leopoldsville. My
eyes they gouged out in the mines of Katanga. And they blew my brains to bits
in Kasai. They have taken my rivers, my mountains, my jungles, I have nothing
left but the fragments of myself that come together in you, my brothers, in the
four corners of the world."
—Patrice
Lumumba
in the
coldest year
lumumba
hot chessman hot castro hot
children
of Birmingham
in the
coldest year
a
smashing of memories a total
out
with it now
the
time
the
magic of it
forced
through the final mesh
of long
walks
patience
the
nervous flowered hats
thinking
we must do something do
some-thing, the
streaming
demonstrators
one
voice
the
long echo
violence
of non-violence
cruelty
of artaud
mexico’s
gas
and
fire hose in san francisco’s
coldest
year. in this cold year
we keep
each other
warm
headline
on headline on
headling
adding to the fire
screaming
madness
hanging in the air, the
hand
shakes
pictures,
cut outs, impossible
collage,
the
weight
of it all as
the
pages turn, burn,
green
groundbeneath it
behind
it
the
bringing strong
silent
going
through the front door
at last
in the
coldest year
going
through the front door and
the
words of lumumba
‘have nothing left
but the
fragments of myself
that
come together in you
my
brothers
in the
four corners of the world.’
10/2/64
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