Amulet
By Jason Bayani
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Amulet - Jason Bayani
Villa
AMULET
1
Remaking the Line
Strange Velocity
Playgrounds and Other Things
Depression
Skin
Pulling Threads
Gristle
Hella
Surrender the Body
2
My Father’s English
Story
What Is This Thing Called Want
Ma,
Today, the Role of Bruce Willis Will Be Played By My Dad
Magkampo
No Shade Along the I-5
For Joseph, Who Drowned in the Creek
Ride
History of the Ardenwood B-Boys
3
Shaking the Steel Trees
Haiku for a Failed Relationship
Third Month in Austin
God of Misplacements
A Broken Crown of Sonnets for the End of the World
Troubador
Continuum
B-Sides
Mitch Hedberg
Fuck a Nostradamus
1
REMAKING THE LINE
The line recasts itself, pulls in toward the skin unbuckling
the knot in my ribs, an aperture shuttering the empty sweep
again and again and again. The word falls out of focus.
STRANGE VELOCITY
Surviving America is learning
the limit of want. Holding
your ability to name. I live
in the noiseless rooms
of your discomfort. Easy
to be written over. Whose free
we fighting for?
PLAYGROUNDS AND OTHER THINGS
Finally, let me say that I think my poem… is not racist
but racially complex.
—Tony Hoagland
I’m a runaway slave-owner. —Iggy Azalea
I.
Eighteen, and every day
the city expands inside my lungs. I live in full,
heaving breaths, like I finally made it to a clearing
where the white kids couldn’t catch me.
And we boys, bold and buried in swagger
slapped on with so much bad cologne.
That day in the city,
bass piping out of our spindly forearms,
we erupted into downtown
like we could dap the streets for all their shine.
And the old lady leaning into the wind
at the corner of Sutter and Stockton:
I heard her tell it like broken glass,
Go back to your country.
Couldn’t get angry enough to breathe right;
tried to remember if there was a word for what makes you
suddenly clutch your chest.
II.
Now imagine being told that she was only
trying to understand her racism (it’s complex, you know).
Art is what happens to her. You need to let it hang in the air.
There is Art to recognition, the Art is in the naming,
Art is a mirror, you can make Art out of this.
There is no Art in being safe. You must risk uncomfortable truth.
The experience is not yours alone. This experience
is not owned by you. We’ve heard this story already.
This is Art. Art rejects the familiar. Stop telling this story
already. The story is the old woman in her sunglasses
marveling that three brown boys would presume to be so
comfortable.
III.
Imagine being asked to applaud
and feeling guilty that it takes so long to remember
you have hands.
Racism is not interesting. It is not an intellectual pursuit.
It is the guts.
One word is a trigger. One word can break your posture. We break
knuckles on this.
Watch where you put it.
IV.
I’m willing to say that we share
this particular sandbox equally.
You just have to let me kick sand in your face
for thirty years or so.
V.
I, too, find it real easy