The Social Poet

A Song for Many Movements by Audre Lorde Nobody wants to die on the way and caught between ghosts of whiteness and the real water none of us wanted to leave our bones on the way to salvation three planets to the left a century of light years ago our spices are separate and particular but our skins sing in complimentary keys at a quarter to eight mean time we were telling the same stories over and over and over. Broken down gods survive in the crevasses and mudpots of every beleaguered city where it is obvious there are too many bodies to cart to the ovens or gallows and our uses have become more important than our silence after the fall too many empty cases of blood to bury or burn there will be no body left to listen and our labor has become more important than our silence Our labor has become more important than our silence. —Audre Lorde read by samm binns

My People by Langston Hughes Dream-singers, Story-tellers, Dancers, Loud laughers in the hands of Fate— My People. Dish-washers, Elevator-boys, Ladies' maids, Crap-shooters, Cooks, Waiters, Jazzers, Nurses of babies, Loaders of ships, Porters, Hairdressers, Comedians in vaudeville And band-men in circuses— Dream-singers all, Story-tellers all. Dancers— God! What dancers! Singers— God! What singers! Singers and dancers, Dancers and laughers. Laughers? Yes, laughers . . . laughers . . . laughers— Loud-mouthed laughers in the hands of Fate. —Langston Hughes read by samm binns