We are soliders
Chorus
We are soldiers in the army
We got to fight, although we have to cry
We got to hold up the blood stain banner
We got to hold it up until we die
Repeat
Verse
My mother was a soldier
She had her hand on the gospel plow,
But one day she got old
She couldn't fight anymore
She said 'I've got to stand here and fight anyhow!'
Chorus
Mediatation:
When his disciples asked Jesus taught them the Lord’s prayer. When I pray or mediatate I focus on certain things, perhaps and ideal that I’d like to understand on a deeper level, andI let it float in my mind’s eye for a moment or two. I usually do better when I am in a moment desperation, for example in my perpetual search for a steady job I kneel before the Almighty in the search for answers. When I was in the military we had a mantra, or as soliders call them ‘battlecries.’ A battle cry can be anything to get a unit through a particular set of training like a 3 mile road march with a 5 bound rucksack, or something as simple as morning PT. I said that to say that the result of the training is a specific skill set, or at least the solider has come out a bit stronger than when he or she entered a specific training engagment. And we all know the old adage "there are no athieist in foxholes;" wiether it’s true or not I am not sure. I don’t think God would hold anything against you if you showed up in heaven after being killed in a foxhole.
If I could ask Jesus I’d ask him how can I put my prayers and deepest desires to practical use to best serve the world? And well multi task while perpetually upgrading myself. I’d Tell Jesus I know the story and I just want help. I’d tell him that I know scholars have none of the answers I am looking for, and while angels are pretty they can’t help me either. I can imagine me and Jesus sitting on my favorite METRO bus or train in Washington over a cup of tea trying to find a feasible solution to my latest query. I look to him out the corner of my eye waiting for an answer. But deep down I already know it, and he smiles at me because I know that the answer lies within me. Unable to bottle my anger and frustration any longer I’d ask him “What the Fuck man? “ Publically crying, I assume the fetal position in his lap. As drool and tears fall from my face and stain his jeans, he strokes my face in a kind of silent assurance. My whining and weezing slowly lulls me to sleep; and as I enter a dream state I dream of being in a room with my father who has been dead for ten years now. We are in a room that is familiar to the both of us. It is the room he shared with my mother in his waking hours; in the house that we lived in when I was a child. Sitting at t the foot end of the bed he squints at me from the other end of the bed. He looks diffrent, from the last time I saw him in the ICU at Jefferson. He seemed to have a glow about him, not an angelic or celestial one, but as if he had gotten really good sleep the night before. I remember thinking that this astral visit thing isn’t as hard I throught it would be; albiet I am laying in the lap of the Lord of Lord,King of Kings, Prince of Peace. He was yampering on about something while I am tuning himout trying to figure out how the hell I am talking to a man that has been dead for nearly ten years. When I finally tuned back in he’s talking about how proud of me he is about getting into college and graduating. Then he asked me why I didn’t cry much at his party, I am like ‘dude what party?’ Then he flashes an authoritative expression, and I get a glance in my mind’s eye. He talking about his funeral. I remind him of the time when I was a kid and my pet dog Bam-Bam died, and he told me that “real men don’t cry.” So I told him “ I was just trying to be a man” I told him “that shit was kinda sudden,” he smiled slapped me on the shoulder and told me to keep pushing.”
As I pulled my eyelids open, and wipped at the dried tears and mucus from my mug, Jesus is telling me that our stop is coming up, and that I should get my bag. As I looked out the window I could see the sunlight bounce off the marble monuments, and the faces of the tourists bumbling from one end of the mall to the other.
As we stroll toward the Lincoln Memorial I am telling Jesus about all the historic things that have happened here; including the time a guy by the name of Dr. Martin Luther King gave a famous speech in this very space. As I ramble on Jesus stops me to explain the importance of dreams. I guess he wants to revisit what I was crying about on the bus earlier. I continue my excited rant about Dr. King and how I think he’s a modern prophet, and how his speeches remind me of Jeremiah in the Hebrew Bible. He’s walking on the grass, and I am balancing on the edge of the Reflecting Pool. Since we are both tired from the walk, we chill by the side of the pool. As I stare at the ducks and the old people feeding them Jesus asks me to revisit the root of the problem I brought up on the bus earlier. I am trying to explain myself but it’s not coming out right. So I went on rambling it sounded something like this. “Look man I am an American, and I have a bug called success. Spawned by a virus called ambition.” I glare at him and ask him is there anything wrong with wanting money. “So one time me and my cousin went to a strip joint, and I couldn’t give into the illusion that all these beautiful women were taking all their clothes off for me. I just couldn’t.......” He motions me to breath. “What about you Bikim, what do you want?” Here I am in the heart of this beautiful nation and I have no clue what it is that I want. He asked me he fucking asked me and I couldn’t produce an answer. My head is spinning, this guy carried a 2 ton cross up a hill in Palestine and I can’t pull one goal out my ass. So I took a deep breathe and said “ I just wanna help these crazy ass niggas!” He smiled at me, all day and I finally got a smile that wasn’t corny. He patted me on the back and said “lets walk.”
(To be continued....Maybe)
Repose:
At the end of the day it’s kinda like life is like the red headed girl that Charlie Brown was always trying to wrap to but he could never quite work up the courage to do it. He would just look at her, and stand in awe of her beauty til he fell on his back trying to split the upright, but always ending up on his back. Then as he lie there in awe of the blue skies and clouds it commands, he’d surely utter “good grief.” I guess when I am trying to say is I am always looking at the beauty in life so hard that I sometimes get cought up in the picture, the movement of it’s smaller parts. Sometimes those smaller parts are people, sometimes those parts are the things people do. And the red headed-girl is she’d have to be unmistakably metaphor for all that I want for myself. I guess the football is the point of it all, I know the point really I guess I mean the vehicle by which will travel, or rather make it happen.
