blood

reflections on a weekend:

and how does one measure impact, in a statistically-bedded society where black is still black and

what does one count, to track the nominal progress we make daily, secondly, moment-arily, in this One Love movement, in this story we call

Oakland. and how does one gauge if she should return, day-in and day-out, dreary-eyed and losing momentum in the down-hill battle through the flatlands, my sometimes heartlands, where beauty resides in the upturned faces of father's daughters, seeds of hope while they remain young (and only young)

and this turned from all about them to a shaky conviction that these uncoordinated and unrequited actions are achieving the necessary minimum to move the foot of the mountain, or move them one foot up the mountain, in any or just one thrust forward, just one

sentence, she found, could destroy the years it took to gain that respect and that trust, because weakness let the light in.

but the young girl's tears, bewildering to her at her announcement of leaving, could not even convince her of her impact, preferring to explain them as few in a series of adult leavings and lettings-down

no, she said, was not me but the unfailing falling of those from grace whom used to be there and were revered, one more retracted hand to the footstools of grace proving yet again that god is what the white people say he is: favoring the rich, western, white faces of middle america and minutemen as they protect their own

i am another retracted hand and another moment fleeting and fleeing an Eternal Truth.