Booster Seat

   

They say time heals,

but what if the wound is still breathin’?

What if every step I take,

I’m walkin’ through blood that ain’t even dried yet?

They told me,

"Bring that Good Book into the Chamber, boy."

And I did.

Didn’t know they’d turn it into a throne, wired up for a lamb too young for its slaughter.

George was his name,

Barely even a boy-

not even tall enough for that chair,

so they sat him on top of athe Bible—turned booster seat

my hands carried it in,

But his body bore all the weight.

I was a believer back then.

Southern.

Black, and 

Christian.

Quoted scripture like it was breath.

"Spare the rod, spoil the child."

But They didn’t spare nothin’.  BecauseThere was nothing left. 

I watched the system do what lynch mobs used to—

only now, it wore a black robe instead of a white hood.

That day George left and

I laid Jesus down.

Buried Him with that boy.

‘Cause if grace got no place for George,

then maybe grace has no place for us.

So Now, I carry this new book...

Pages inked in Arabic,

Familiar fire and brimstone,

but truth being balanced with 

Discipline and

Dignity.

And still—

MashaAllah those ghosts come back.

I see George’s wide eyes.

Chains clinkin’ like Sunday tambourines.

I hear him every time I read:

“Do not let hatred of a people prevent you from being just...”

But justice?

Where was it at Dozier School, down in Florida?

Black boys locked in cages,

beaten, buried in the soil like family secrets.

Same soil my daddy tilled.

Same sun that never saw their names.

They told us we were free.

But the rope just turned into bars.

The whips into courtrooms.

The cross into electric chairs.

I seen it all in Myrlie's and Mamie's tears,

In the charred bones of Rosewood,

in the way they say “thug” when they actually mean “nigger”

but then spell it out with legislation.

And me?

I ain’t whole.

I’m stitched up in psalms and surahs.

I Still pray,

but now with my back straight,

palms open,

askin’ God not just for mercy—

but for memory.

‘Cause this don’t fade.

It echoes.

It recycles.

Every time they lock a child away

for lookin’ too grown,

for talkin’ too loud,

for dreamin’ too free.

And every time,

I see George.

Feet swingin’.

Eyes searchin’.

Wonderin’ why the Word

wasn’t enough to save him.

I don't know how to answer his question,

So I carry this new holy book into the Chamber.

But the weight ain't changed.

The Words might’ve...

But the wounds still got the same names...

Bullet's Proof

First there's a slide
and then there's a click
and then with a bang,
I fling of my jack and fly free-

Leaving behind a chem trail, 

I'm moving so fast, I catch sound asleep

by the time any of you
hear the noise
of my departure,
I've already arrived-

and gone by...

leaving a body behind

 lyin still and stiff,
indentified
Only by a chalk line

The jacket I left
is just a bullet's proof,
that playgrounds have meant to be
bulletproof


Of course, there will be rants and raves
about inner city rage,
rap music,
gangs,
meth
and cocaine...
The need for more graduation,
More gun control
And  less incarceration,

and in the meantime
more lead will be bled
from the earth's inside
so that more hammers from judges' can strike-
to punctuate the end of life-
...sentences

and me?
I'll just be resting here, embedded in flesh and broken bone

It's just a temporary home - I'll soon be extracted
and examined
and remelted
reshaped, 
restocked and resold

Like nothing tragic just happened...

I'll be reinserted and restacked into a new clip that's 
smacked into a new gun
And soon I'll get to fly free once again

Like nothing tragic ever happens.

Until...
an 8 year old boy picks up what he thinks is a toy -
One that really belongs to his father

The boy is pretending to be a cop
That he sees on tv
His 6 year old sister is playing the robber

and as the cop draws down on the bad guy
and pulls back the slide
there I am sitting there,
staring down the barrel at pigtails

Something tragic is about to happen............

And all I can do is sit there
Holding on to my brand new shiny jacket
waiting for the okay to fly,

Once again free-
Free to bring misery

Free to leave people

scratching their heads at the mystery,

Wondering if  a magazine's capacity,

wont impede our ability to to institute our liberty,

From polluted oceans to shining seas

leaving swiss -cheesed bodies,

Lying in the sun like raisins in potatoe salad .

And I'll have you know... 

While y'all post about thoughts and prayers , 

I'm about to drunk-drive over your condolences,

Super- sonically into the frail body of another little sister,

And then, I'ma ricochet into the room,

Of elementary school classmates,

Then, maybe smash into a Hutus village,

Cheered on by their Tutsi cousins,

 Looking thru scopes and gunsights,

 Made right down the street from where you eat dinner every night...

My final destination the left cheek  and right jawbone of the activist reading this poem,

 Leaving him lying there bleeding,

While listening to the lonely cries of an unborn son,

Who might not get to meet his daddy

The only thing impeding my progress, is the bones of his nasal cavity- and gravity...

 So while you scream and shout about what lives matter, 

Pardon me while I celebrate what it really means to live free...

Free to create heartache, and heartbreak,

Free to bring pain.

All while I'm just sitting here, waiting,

innocent and silent,

patient and violent,

Just waiting...

waiting for the slide...
waiting for the click...

Waiting ...for the BANG...

The Polish...

"What do we do with all these Free people?"

We share-crop them, 

Keep them away from Sally, 

And invite them to pack their carpet bags and

Move to Panama.

If they inexplicably stay,

Terrorize them with pillow cases with eyes cut out,

We'll keep them come from voting by making them spell their name, 

We'll outline their neighborhoods with red markers ,

And let them learn from books with no glue in them 

We'll use bull horns ,

Dobermans, three strikes, and plane loads of freebase,

360 deals and spinner wheels, 

Take the chains from their ankles, and put them around their necks

Usher them (back) onto cruise trips ,

That boomerang back to penitentiaries named after African nations,

We fool them with our version of what Jesus would do, 

Stop them from learning multi-syllabic words,

By teaching them acronyms like NBA NFL and DEI,

We'll make "nigger" a limerick

Lube them up with baby oil 

So that they slide like oil slicks into indictments and fentanyl funerals.

We let their dreams dry up like split lips in winter,

Cracked and bleeding promises—

Or we set them to boil in the kettle of ambition,

Until they explode in protest and prayer.

Then we build museums,

To remember what we made them forget.

We line their windows with black tape and blue lights,

Name their children after hurricanes and hope,

Fund murals not mortgages,

And teach them to dribble better than they speak.

We'll scrub history

Until it’s squeaky cleanwith omission,

Make amnesia an institution,

And call it "curriculum".

We bleach their heroes with Hollywood smiles,

Press their tongues between branding irons

That hiss freedom in lowercase.

We hand them microphones,

But wire them to detonators.

We bottle their culture like perfume,

Spray it on suburbia,

Then throw the bottle back

Right upside their heads.

And when they march,

We let the cameras roll,

But not the reforms.

Until, finally—

we file away the last census card,

Mark the checkbox "extinct,"

And sigh relief into the ashes of jazz.

But it don’t end.

No, it don’t end.

We rinse with riot,

Repeat with silence.

Polish the lie until it gleams like justice.

Then run the cycle back—

until even the dream deferred forgets

what it was dreaming for..

#NationalPoetryMonth

Audacity

#nationalpoertrymonth '35

I am the descendant of slaves and a statistical minority.

I have bad credit and bad kidneys

I have no parents and no power. I own felony convictions and restraining orders.

I have 10 bullet holes and maybe 10 dollars

I am not supposed to be here and I have no rights or expectation of respect,

And yet...

As miniscule and irrelevant as I am,

I am the devil's greatest threat . My voice makes Her cringe and slither away fearful,

I am the mountain in a world that never had me in mind,

Yet a world I continue to define.

I am the middle finger to racists, bitter baby mamas, and murderous exes,

I laugh every time they gather round 

Their lies no longer have volume...

I am a truth, so thunderous and LOUD.