Safe...

WE ARE NOT SAFE

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In Nebraska—

there’s a city called Whiteclay.

Population: a whole nine people 

In the town there are 2 streets. 

A liquor store sits on each of the 4 corners.

…

We are not safe.

They say gossip

is a survival mechanism—

Our brains wired through connection

just to keep us breathing.

So, if I talk about you,

my heart keeps beating—

But that don’t mean empathy.

Don’t mean your pain

teaches me anything.

No guarantee, for example,

That you’ll find it poetic

that the Israeli government is actually 

anti-Semitic.

We are not safe.

We watch misery

through ivory windows.

Curl up

trying to stay warm—

wrapped in a shield

as strong as Styrofoam.

Safety?

Is a desert mirage—

blinding us

to people dying of thirst

because they made it illegal in Gaza

to even collect rain...

…

Whiteclay Nebraska—

Is right on the edge of Pine Ridge Reservation 

Three million cans of beer sold on those four corners in a year.

Guess the color of the people who drank them...

We are not safe.

We can hit the store

at 3 a.m.—

and although if we buy Skittles and iced tea-

We might not make it home

to Mama.

But at least—

when the ice cream truck comes—

no drone is turning our children

into afterlife statistics.

We are not safe.

But we think we are—

scrolling…

arguing about Drake, k

endrick

Kanye, Epstein or

Diddy—

like distraction

is a life raft.

No.

We are not safe.

We never been.

Light skin.

Good hair.

All Inherited hate.

We fight for Section 8

because they won’t let us buy—

Because, how can property

own property?

That ain’t gang violence

you hear at night—

that’s just the police—

still mad they lost

their slave-catcher badges

Shooting black bodies

into the chalk outlines

they leave behind.

I’m still waiting

on my 40 acres—

and that last 40%

that would make me constitutionally human.

Instead—

 We get 40 years to life 

for daring

to dream the same dream of forgotten Philistines.

We scream for reparations—

They ship it overseas.

Turn it into bombs.

Drop it on babies.

Signed it with their autographs.

…

Those babies—

pressed into soil

become oil—

pumped into pipelines,

into cars—

and we drive—

wondering why the exhaust

smells like copper

Smells Like blood.

We are not safe.

We can’t even speak freely—

algorithms

turn truth

into punishment.

We are not safe.

Because we choose silence.

Hope the bombs we made

don’t come back

like boomerangs.

We see mothers—

holding children—

lowered into mass graves—

and look away

like we do sitting

at red lights.

We are not safe—

so we stay quiet.

…

But not all of us.

Some of us remember—

Stokely said

tell Mississippi

all the scared niggas are dead.

I survived the gunshot to the face

So fear don’t move me.

You don’t know the history that I know—

You don't know that daybwhen he spoke His defiance

MLK was literally standing right beside him

I don’t imagine Malcolm

I just look in the mirror.

I see survival smiling

with a bullet scar.

So yeah—

I know we not safe.

That’s why I stay ready.

…

And my son—

he gon’ learn early.

I threw away his sippy cups—

So he won’t drink the Kool-Aid.

He’ll know:

silence ain’t safety.

Your voice—

that’s your shield.

…

...In Maxton, North Carolina.

1958.

The Klan showed up for a rally

the Indigenous showed out with their rifles

Muzzles spoke a war dance. White hoods ran off with buckshot in their asses

Now, that day is a state holiday.

…

So my son gon’ know—

He ain’t just Black.

My tribe is:

Youcancatchthesehands.

From the Fight Back Mountains.

We got Two rules:

Don’t talk about my mama.

Protect all the babies,

And our tribe—

you’ll find it in DC, Chicago, Texas Denver, and Palestine.

…

We may not be safe.

But we stay free.

We may not be safe—

But we stay free.

We are not safe—

but as long as we breathe—

We may not be safe-

But will always be dangerous...

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