If This Stands (its - ch 3)

Preamble

Gather ’round children, here’s what’s in store, 

Two-fifty years of history about a special Door,

It’s a Freedom Door for a Freedom Nation, 

And we vow to hold it, for the next generation,

It’s a compromise with no fixed conclusion,

Other than a more perfect union.

Soon all this will be yours to defend. 





So sit still! Listen closely from the start ’till the end. 



Part I

We open this story as if it’s the greatest ever told,

With maybe the greatest heroes we’ve ever known,



The Door first held open by George Washington, 

So we the people run things from the top to the bottom.

It’s how a man of modest means,

Came to live with Kings and Queens,



What power Washington had, and gave back,

Binding us, still today, to our shared contract.

But even the purest contract, by the best men,

Is only as strong as the weakest who inherit.



The great powers that were thought he’d be a king, 

Like for thousands of years, all had ever been. 

But it’s they who would fall, 

When left open for all,

The Door would call,

So their people would crawl,

As once we crawled,

At the start of it all,

Now our flag stands tall,

Guarding that Door,



Where a Right for one,

Is a Right for all.

In our first year of freedom, Washington said,

While looking for some descent-hearted men:



If you break your back for this country,

Then that’s good enough for me.

We’ll etch the contract into this wood,

We’ll fashion a Door and then we’ll walk through.



It’s not just the words carved onto the Door,

But the spirit woven through each consecrated board.

It’s a long cold winter of freedom,

With hard-won victories defeating suspicion.



It’s a promise, soon to be realized,

When all this pain will feel like no sacrifice.

It’s a compromise with no fixed conclusion,

Other than a more perfect union.



For one more year, we will hold the door, 

And when it stands, then one year more. 

When Thomas Jefferson heard men complain,

About why must there be so much change,



He heard what they meant to say:

“At the end of the day, make them obey.”

It’s how a man of clever mind,

Modified the compromise,



To give us time, to give our country life,

Knowing the balance will differ in each place and time.

There are three elements, in a free society,

The Twins Flames hog the stage of this story,



One flame: Why must things change?

The other: Things can’t stay the same.



The Twin Flames must stay locked in their eternal battle,

Because Three is the danger, the Change, the Radical.

Every age, every era, will have its Wild Men,

Some are for good and some are for bad.



Some are just breakers; others re-makers,

But through it all, we need the caretakers:

If the Flames break apart, then the Radical wins,

All hell will break loose, and we’ll all be dead.



But if the Flames are held loosely, then the Radical wins,

Never completely, but change can begin.

The Twin Flames are what hold the Door,

And give us the grace to move towards,



A compromise with no fixed conclusion,

Other than a more perfect union.

Washington gave us Liberty,

But Jefferson gave us Life



They etched the contract into wood,

Sealed it with blood and sacrifice.

With clean hands, 

They opened the Freedom Door,

With clear conscious, 

They said if this stands, then one year more,



With common purpose, 

They gave us a few simple instructions.

You have your favorites, now lift the best,

And watch them soar above the rest,

Help them rise to the top,

Not on merit alone,



But because those below,

Are pushing them up.

Knowing there’s a power still untapped,

An uncharted future that’s barely been scratched,

To defend the pursuit of happiness,

You just have to say the words,

To defend our shared contract,

Take it, and make it yours.



For one more year, you will hold the Door,

And if this stands, 250 more.



Part II

To a king, it doesn’t matter what you say,

Only at the end of the day, you will obey:



Have your little arguments, your athletics,

Your little writings, your entertainments,

But at the end of the day, you will obey.

We owe so much to Christianity,

For making our freedoms a reality,



For centuries, for ages, all that was known:

Only your soul, is yours to control,

And the soul can be a quiet thing.

Is this our lawfully wedded faith?

Where nothing changes, nothing gained?



Maybe only fools had time to question,

But they weren’t asking for the freedom of Heaven,

Only the story of a new name.

A heartbeat echoes down the generations,

Leaving their children asimple instruction,



A bright line from dawn’s early light,

Singing, weaving, burning away the night,

Chasing away all suspicion.

Only / your soul / is yours / to control.

Only / your soul / is yours / to control.



Freedom for the living, freedom comes too late.

So tie a rope to Heaven’s Gate,

	and pull.

Every voice, a ray of light woven into a rope

The tyrants mocked such a feeble hope:



That Heavenly Gate? Go ahead and pull,

You can no more do that, than you can lasso the moon!

But it wasn’t a joke.

To a king, it’s freedom for me, but not for thee,

But why can’t there be maybe some for me?



Maybe this, maybe that. Maybes are for fools.

Pull that Gate a little closer to earth so those

In control, see they can make a copy.

They spoke of hope for a better life,

Despite all the odds, they lifted their voice,



Weaving a demand from a simple instruction,

Building an inferno from a flicker of freedom,

	The soul must make its choice.

We’re not demanding the freedom of Heaven,

Even the facsimile of justice is a better direction.



Hear all our voices, demanding a Gate,

Make it here, make it now, make it in this place.

I can hear the sound of freedom.

It’s the final gate, for the final hour,

Accounting for all the tolls you inure.



The tyrants were right about those Pearly Gates,

No matter how hard you pull, they’re always too far away.

But a gate, by any other name, is a door.

And what to their wondering ears should appear?

Something by all rights shouldn’t have been there.



Their demands had conceived aGreat Door of Freedom.

All they had to do was push the Door open.



It was a ringing freedom, calling them near.

For centuries, for ages, all that was known,

Only your soul, is yours to control.

All those voices braided into a chorus,

United, unbroken, echoing down the generations,

They lifted their voices, in a brilliant incantation,

To bring forth the closest thing to Heaven on earth…



		…a Freedom Nation!

For one more year, you will hold the Door,

And if this stands, 250 more!

Be still my beating heart,

The future is ripe with the present.



I stand before you telling this story,

I can hear it echo all around me,

Do not give in to resentment.

Hope is disappointment delayed

Hope is misery, suffering, pain,



Hope is a virus, a foolish contagion,

Hope might be all we have left in the end,

Don’t talk to me about hope, okay.

It’s the first few times,

Before your lucky break,

The one after that when,



You’re ideas, they didn’t take.

Inconsequential fool,

How many times before it’s fate?

But then hope it floats,



But then hope it floats,

And by the end of the day,

You’re swept away.

I almost have to apologize,

For if the hope bubbles rise,



They can lift you to the mountaintop

And once they pop, there’s no way to stop,

Hope is a disappointing surprise.

Why give in to hope, I mean, like, voluntarily?

You’re a foolish ship sailing rough seas.



But there’s a sliver of a window to right the wrongs of the past,

To lift every boat and hope it will last,

An answer, a long-suffering reply.

But then hope it floats,



But then hope it floats,

And by the end of the day,

You’re swept away.

Yet who will save us from ourselves,

When the flames are flickering, but no one helps?

Think of all those fools who went before us,

Hoping that maybe someday there might be something,

To make sense of all this suffering.

And how they lifted their voices in a hopeful chorus,

When freedom, in this world, struggled to be born,

How they sang together, an incantation,

To bring forth the closest thing to Heaven on earth,



At last, 

this nation, 

a Freedom Nation!

A nation so conceived,

Holding the Twin Flames of Liberty,



Will keep it open for all the others,

And call them cousins, sisters, brothers,

So each can write their own histories.

One day not so long from now, 

You, our children, will renew this same vow, 

You will hold both flames, stand strong in the breach, 

You will say not here. Not now. Not in this place, 

And when you look back, it will be worth any hurt,



To defend the closest thing to Heaven on earth,

	…the brightest beacon, 

…a Freedom Nation.

One day our names will be lost to the sands of time,

Our lives summarized in a few lines of rhyme,

As we summarize those who came before us,

They will braid our names into the chorus,

And all we will be is an unbroken line,

		A simple instruction,

		A sacred hope,

		Just waiting to be found,







		When we’re needed the most:

For one more year, you will hold the Door, 

And if this stands, 250 more.







Part III

There’s nothing more dangerous, 

Than a humiliated man,

Who will take what is done to him, 



And send it on again.

There’s nothing more humiliating,

Than a hero’s betrayal,

When values are sacrificial,



In the Law of the Jungle.

There’s no deeper betrayal,

Than a free man stabbed in the back,

When a sacred hope,



Is torn into scraps.

Free men will fight,

Their liberties,

When their victories,



Fade from living mem’ry.

There’s no deeper liberty,

Than that of equal rights,

It’s the cure for humiliation,



It must never be sacrificed.

No one will be more dangerous to us,

Like one we sacrifice out of convenience.

No one will be see our point of view, 



Like one who found it on the battlefield. 

Yet this is when we go on the attack, 

To stab a free man in the back? 

Those in charge will rot in Hell, 

But if this stands we’re damned as well. 



Can we feel the pull of history?

Has it faded from living mem’ry?

When fourscore and fourscore, 

And fourscore and seven years before, 

We were the first to hold the door.

It was our flag alone, welcoming all, 



This is in our blood, this is in our soul. 

How can you say: 

“Oh, what's done to them? 

I’m a Know Nothing!”

When what's done to them is done in our name! 

When the worst is suddenly easy to see, 

Dead men breathing, crawling to their liberty, 

This is when we go on the attack, 

To stab a free man in the back? 



It’s a sin against the soul of our nation, 

A mortal sin, 

an abomination. 

Those in charge will rotten Hell, 



But if this stands, we’re damned as well. 

Using both sides of their mouth, 

These two-faced politicians,

Cover all their bases, 



In more than four directions.

While waiting for,

A star to be born,

They’ll migrate towards,



The rising sun.

Are you a play-dead politician?

Or a boot-lickin’ monster?

What do we say to that?



Grow a spine, motherfucker.

It takes courage to fight,

Even more to survive,

But you’ve never had courage,



A day in your life.

When for the first time in my life,

I see the outline,

Of something that might call on me to die,



	for.

No one will see our point of view,

Like one who found it on the battlefield.

Yet this is when we go on the attack,



To stab a free man in the back?

Those in charge will rot in Hell,

But if this stands, we’re damned as well.

Hold both Flames, loosely, stand in the breach,

If the president’s a bad egg, you must impeach!

It takes courage to fight,



Even more to survive,

We must have courage now,

To keep this story alive.

For one more year, you will hold the Door,

And if this stands, 250 more!



Part IV

Free men will fight their liberties, 

When their victories fade from living mem’ry. 

They’ll look, from shoulder to shoulder, 

And see chains where there is only duty and honor. 

“Cast these chains aside, I am no slave,”



But with no history, he is easily made, 

To break the Twin Flames, keep one, toss the other, 

And if he succeeds, we’re bound for another, 

Long hard crawl to the Freedom Door, 

Maybe forever, 

Maybe forevermore. 

Pain and suffering, 

Leads to rebirth and renewal,



Away from the void, 

And into the future,

A future burning bright, 

So take it, and make it yours

Your story is a weapon, 

In the war of ideas.

Why else would they silence you, 

In the midst of your pain?



Because pain is the means, 

To make heroes from nothing.

Cower if you want, cover you eyes,

But if you tell yours, I’m gonna tell mine,

Stand strong, do not give in to silence,

Your story is a weapon, in the war of ideas!



No kings, no slaves, no tyrant overlords,

When fourscore and fourscore,

And fourscore and seven years before,

We were the first to hold the Door.

And as our forefathers foretold,

When it stands, 250 more.



When the slavers of the Radical South, 

Needed a good kickin’ in the mouth,

We won and said never again.

The liberties won, we locked ’em in. 

In times of war, you hold the Door, 

And when it stands, 250 more. 



When those needle-necked little Nazis, 

Needed a knifing at the knees, 

And Europe needed liberating, 

It was our flag they were celebrating.

In times of war, you hold the Door, 

and when it stands, 250 more.



The arc of the moral universe is long, 

but it bends towards Justice, 

What MLK didn’t say, but had to show us, 

Is that if the Twin Flames pull too far apart, 



The Law of the Jungle is at the heart, 

Of what’s on the other side of that Door, 

So hold both flames, loosely, and move forward,

Away from the void, away from destruction,

Down with these walls! Down with apartness!

If times are hard, you hold the Door, 



and when it stands, 250 more.



Now we have a Radical Orange, 

And as we learned in school, 

Nothing rhymes with orange. 

But what’s happening now? 



Rhymes with what came before, 

When every time, we held the Door.

Now we have rich, bored people, 

And their fake neutrality,

They go along to get along, 

And make some money.



If the glove fits, 

Call it what it is!

So many Brilliants, 

With their minds twisted into pretzels.



I’m sick of Pretzel Men,

With their Pretzel Agenda.

In a fight to the death, 

Know what time it is!



They won’t deal in facts,

These opinionated monsters,

What do we say to that?

Grow a spine, motherfuckers!

Those in charge will rot in Hell,

But if this stands, we’re damned as well.

Hold both Flames, stand in the breach!

If the President’s a bad egg, you must impeach!

Why else would they silence you, 

In the midst of your pain?

Because pain is the means, 

To make heroes from nothing.





When fourscore and fourscore,

And fourscore and seven years before,

Our heroes became a simple instruction,

	A sacred hope,

	Just waiting to be found,

	When they’re needed the most:

For one more year, you will hold the Door, 



And if this stands, 250 more. 





Part V

Stand strong and the doorframe will not fall,

But the Twin Flames must find a home within us all, 



In one wing: Meet people where they are, 

Why do things change? Why make it so hard? 

And on the other side stands equal rights, 

With the arc of the moral universe, burning bright. 

Power concedes nothing without a demand, 

But both flames burning bright is how that Door stands.

The Twin Flames will forever be fighting, 



Dancing, changing, pushing, pulling. 

It’s your voice that keeps the Door standing,

So stand strong, speak without fear, make it demanding!

If your mind changes when the dance takes a turn, 

Stand strong and say: 

I'll speak my mind in this country of mine, 

Ask not what your country can do for you,



Only / your soul / is yours / to control,

Who will stand, if we wait for someone else?

The only thing to fear is fear itself.

If your mind changes when the dance takes a turn, 

Stand strong without fear of intimidation or coercion. 

For those who will come after, for each generation,



We lift all our voices in righteous condemnation,

And defend the closest thing to Heaven on earth…

	the brightest beacon, 

…a Freedom Nation!

Our victory is not guaranteed,

I can see it all laid out before of me,

With clean hands, clear conscious, and common purpose,

Our pain and suffering leads to renewal and rebirth,



With a sliver of a window to right the wrongs of the past,

To lift every boat, and hope it will last.

Pain is the means, 

to make heroes from nothing,

In every ounce of pain, every hero made, 

I see an opportunity.



If the great wheel turns,

And the timing is right,

To take one small step for man,

And one giant leap for mankind.

I almost have to apologize,

For when the hope bubbles rise.

Hope is disappointment delayed,

But with no history, you are easily made.



To forget on this long odyssey,

All the people before us who sailed rougher seas.

All those voices braided into a rope,

When freedom was just a dream of a hope,

To lasso the moon, to bring forth a Door,

A Door never seen in this world before.

Wind the rope tight to the mast,

So there’s nothing leftover to hang from our necks,

When our victories fade from living mem’ry,



And Wild Men foment to lead us awry.

There’s always a power untapped,

An uncharted future, barely scratched.

You just have to say the words.



And mean them.

Have something to deliver.

Let every person, 

who wasn’t born for this world,

Know your future is bright, 

if you take it, and make it yours.

Don’t let them sell it,



Give it away to these monsters?

What do we say to that?

Grow a spine, motherfuckers.

We are the caretakers for the next generation,





Of the most powerful weapon,

…in the war of ideas.

Your stories,

The stories of this nation,

		The Story of America,

			…the story of a Freedom Nation.

Hold both Flames, stand strong in the breach,



Say not here, not now, not in this place.

For one more year, you will hold the Door,

And if this stands, 250 more.





Finale

The Twin Flames are what hold the Door, 

And give us the grace to move towards, 



A compromise with no fixed conclusion, 

Other than a more perfect union. 

Where all Men are created equal,

Where a Right for one, is a Right for all.

But free men will fight their liberties, 

When their victories fade from living mem’ry.

There’s no doubt, one day not so long from now, 

Our grandchildren will have to renew this same vow, 

They will hold both Flames, stand strong in the breach, 

They will say not here. Not now. Not in this place, 

For one more year they will hold the Door, 

And when it stands, 250 more.

Butwho will save us from ourselves, 

When we crawl, we crawl, but no one helps?





Except a man out of time, 

Two-hundred fifty years old, 

He says, half dead, while laughing: 

Pain, is the means, 





to make heroes, from nothing, 

Hold both flames, loosely, stand in the breach, 

Say not here, not now, not in this place, 

For one more year, you will hold the door, 





One more, 

one more, 

just one year more, 

And if this stands, 250 more. 

To those in the future who don't think you can, 

Look to the past, we do now as they did then, 

Hold both flames, loosely, united we stand, 

Can the free world ride again? Yes we can! 

If you can see that open Door,

If you can feel the honor of that obligation,

If you can hear that ringing instruction,

Then it is you who are the rising sun!

%%%

Afterword

It’s not about quality. It’s when the pieces falling into place are all lateral moves; that’s when I know the end is near. And then when I compare what is there with what was upstairs, despair.

It’s not good enough. Not by a long shot.

The poem is bad, and because it is bad, no one will ever read the important lines that have plagued me since the beginning, the entire purpose of this multi-media exercise.

So the book will have to improve, to pull more weight. But it is bad. And I don’t want to look at it anymore until I’ve forgotten how bad it is and can maybe trick myself into thinking it isn’t. I’m a pretty shit writer.

And since everything is awful and not worth the finish line, you can kiss that non-existent movie even more of a non-existent goodbye than you did when you took the first steps on this project. If no one reads it, no one will make a movie. And no one will read the poem aloud, as those few lines were intended.

Which means an easier life for me.

And I’m disgusted to feel relief at that.

Because if it is bad, then no one will read it. So it doesn’t matter if it’s bad or good. Just that it’s done and maybe this plague can be over. I’ve never felt it this insistently before. It is literally a plague this time. Thinking that the poem won’t be performed gives me paralysis. This one is more important than the others.

I rarely want to unpublish the others that were so personal to me. Only when I think about them.

I’m thankful for all the times I’ve felt this way before, so I know one day soon these emotions will pass and I will actually be proud of what I’ve done, instead of just pretending out loud.

But for now it’s bad, and there’s no use dreaming of the poem being spoken aloud and reaching those important parts with the sung lines and the accompanying music, and the call and response from the non-existent crowd. No need to think over that performance that will now never happen. So much time agonizing over something that will never happen.

And the movie… I will never have to turn in a draft script, something I’ve never done before.

I’ve also never written a poem before, which is why it’s so mediocre.

I’ve never done a lot of things this thing demands of me.

The dream can go to sleep for a while.

Briefly, no longer trapped in a pleasant dream, I can work a little more to make it reality.

Then I read a portion of what I’ve forgotten and realize, oh, this is good, actually? Huh.

Who knew, I can actually write a decent book. Why didn’t it feel like that was the case for a minute there? I’ve been doing it for fifteen years at this point! 



I haven’t ever written a poem for publication, however, that remains true. My career as a poet will begin and end when I hit publish… or if I hit that button.

Stuck between happiness, and sinking, and the ever-present now, now, now. Now before it’s too late. The Paralyzing Now.

Have I finally accepted what it is instead of what it should be? No one else will know what should have been, only me.

Conversations inside a pleasant dream, a future never happening, there are lines and lines to be added, pieces falling, if I can pop out and write them down.

Stories are the weapons in the war of ideas. Write it. Publish it. It’s not up to you to change the world. 



Seems like a bit of a stretch for an entertainer.



It’s the collective story that will do it. One at a time, brick by brick. Not mine. Not yours. All of them. In whatever way we can.

What can I do?

I’ve settled on the sinking understanding that the book and the poem, both separately and when taken together, are above mediocre. And also the best I can do. Which means I will never be in the position to perform them, as I can see so clearly in my mind. This is good. This is good. Because I have a face made for radio, and a voice made for the written word. So I am exactly where I’m supposed to be.

And thus, 

I can hit, 

publish.

%%%



Author’s Bio

Thank you for reading.

Stay safe out there.

Stand strong.

I sliced and diced myself into this current book because I was writing so fast, so there’s a lot of me in here. If you want my author’s bio, check out It’s Just Us Here, by me. You’ll get more than you could ever possibly want. I basically took the themes and writing style of that earlier work and extended/compressed them here. It’s a fun style I’ve only used under this pen name. It feels good and comes out confidently. Maybe this is now officially my style?

I hope you liked it.

%%%



Colophon

I’ve never done

a lot of things 

this thing 

demands of me.

Briefly, no longer trapped 

in a pleasant dream, 

I can 

work a little 

more towards 

making it 

reality.