Chorus (15 page)

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.

Everything is enchanted here
.

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

as thoug
h
I w
ere
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 th
is
work,

me marveling at the falls, climbing

the inclines and staying on a trail.

Here my s
h
ad
ow
is a musical masterpiece.

I greet my fello
w
hik
e
rs 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 con
s
ume the tr
ee
s 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 s
h
e were as l
o
vely as this
w
ater 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.

The
y 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.

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.

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

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 visionaries 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.