For Audre Lorde The moon floats like a differentiation over our gardenless wall. The alley cats croon. Nobody seems to care, a hat without a head has been left horizontal. How could it find this home? And if passing stay. . . .
I. It’s a family thing To look the other way To enable to grieve To hurt to suffer To trap to hustle To fight to struggle It’s a family thing It must be a family thing II. I don’t believe in ghosts But I believe in spirits I don’t believe electoralism But I believe in revolution III. Politics of the streets That’s just the politics Of the streets Young people die And babies too The police military And intelligence agencies Flood the streets With guns and drugs Then watch as Chaos ensues IV. I’m no one’s puppet I stand with . . .
after “A Poem About Police Violence” by June Jordan backbreakin bloodlust is an amerikkkan past-time except now the slave is convinced he owns the whip overseers fucked around and got union benefits house niggas swallowed the master’s tongue oppressors tailored industries out of plantation speak now the racist sheriff is Black and police is family business and it was five Black cops that beat that boy beyond recognition or man depending on if you believe Black boys are either always men or remain boys til death spins the block dizzy sincere apologies to the poetry community all my stanzas sound . . .
A tribute to Kwame Ture Feel them So it’s felt Here then & now Living in mind Living in spirit Stand where They stood Take the same route Leave prints in theirs Hear their callings Hear their warnings Learn their lessons Feel them So it’s felt . . .