the end of the fucking world came again in May that year,
nine minutes and twenty nine seconds
stretched to hours, broke to days, forced into months.
and it sounded the same way the end of the world always sounds . . .
Poem
a poem in which we shoot back
i love my people. i protect and serve my people. i’ll die to neutralize any threat to my people. . . .
“The First Black”
by Too Black “The First Black” the Clayface of the Black race — shape-shifted to fit the state’s mission Muddying the waters of slaughter A farcical marvel; built by white guilt Sculpted and welded to quell a rebellion “The First Black” is almost always the safe Black Raised as a docile rotwild Taught to bark down at its own breed, but rarely seems to bite the white hand that feeds “The First Black” the single needle conveniently placed within the colonized haystack Handpicked — personified as the proverbial reminder, “Hey, maybe now the evil empire might have a soul???” Or . . .
Spiritual Warfare
Owolabi “Perhaps there is a monstrous origin to it, after all. Perhaps to lay hands on your child is to prepare him for war.” – Ocean Vuong Part 1 I wrote poems of gratitude to my father. Poems of honor. Poems imagining survival in Mississippi in the days when the crakkas had free reign over Black bodies. My ex-wife wondered why? She heard my stories, my heart, and only saw my tears. For years in our marriage, I cried. I processed pain and how his discipline came with fists and belts. I processed silent pain when I didn’t hear the . . .
The Comfortable Ones
This poem is for the comfortable ones. For the bureaucrats who exist to insure their existence. For the civil servants who are not civil and do not serve. For the teachers who teach what to think but don’t know how to think. For the policeman who serve capital and protect property. For the doctors selling health, the lawyers selling justice, and the politicians selling their souls. For the upwardly mobile, down pressing, respectable, well mannered, individualist. For the use-to-bees, claim-to-bees, and wanna-bees. This poem -is for the wealthy ones. For their peace absent justice, structurally adjusted, debt servicing, payment balancing, . . .
My Wise Country Cousin on Unca Jim Clyburn an de Sharp Rite Turn
Son, it look lak Unca Jim say, “Las’ time I chek I’se de whip— an’ got no time fo’ young Negroz wit all dey Blak Life lip…” He say, “de Bibull speak ob “spoilin’ de chile by sparin’ de rod!” as he read de Riot Ak to whippasnappas ob ‘de Squad…’ “We rescued yo’ po’ asses frum Boss Tweet—de main dangur— lak pullin’ Negroz feet frum fire ob W wit de Drone Rangur!” We gib ‘de lef’ movin’ space wit Ol’ Blak Schmo an’ Ladee Blu— what else can me, Miss Nancy, Cap’n Steny an’ Tio Tomas do? Jim say, . . .