Sunday, December 17, 2017

Wednesday, December 13, 2017

This is what it means to be a child of the sun

The bat  can carry   all the   viruses in the world and shows no symptoms   Its  black  wings   are  skins   its   happenings    affinities       in imitation      we     have     N A F T A      we have  never    left      the   maquiladora     crouched  over piles  of   chili  powder   in  a  modern   spice  war     proud  to  reach   Culver City   in  the  back  of an ice cream   truck    five    for     a   dollar     the powdered chili   having    been   made into   a   paste   that you  can  push with pump through   the perforated top of a spherical dispenser and   like   a   baby     baiting    the    areola     to churn      except   unnamed slaves    made     you    this    spicy     candy      and  Chiapas   is  a  far   away   place      you’ve never   heard   of    till it’s   too late    and how  do  you    tell   the   fat    man    he  is  starving   himself    do  you   say:   fat  man     you’re  living   in   a suicide    machine  of your  own making     do   you   say   batman   is   black    and   I   whooped    his    ass       for      some  cayenne   pepper   and    a  rhythm    I   can’t     quite   speak  

Monday, December 11, 2017

Walk for Me

Put  your   hands   up       and     walk    slowly     toward     the     gun        You   can’t    join   our  march   but    we    can      walk     in      the     same       direction.      The    four    girls      were    walking     upstairs   from   bible    study    in    that   ‘bama   basement.  Walk for me.  Emmett  Till     was   walking    home    to   the   wall      of   the  MET.  Walk   for    me.   Bill   Gunn      was    walking     backwards     in    a   murder    scene   with the    tenant  farmers   which   is   black   suicide—    Walk for me.   Justice    smells    barbeque   and    Tupac    walks    to      the   reunion     with     her.   Walk for   me.   Medgar Evers   was  walking    out onto    his   front   porch     to   pick  up the   newspaper  with   his   empty   coffin  on the   cover.    Walk  for  me.    If   you   take   it    that   slow    it gets  blurry   like   a   hot   black     day     in  a      body    in     the     street.     George  Jackson    was   cooking  Al  Green   some  grits.     Walk  for   me.     If   you   go   too     fast    they’ll    assume   you’re  running   from   something   and  unload   the    gun while you’re on your knees.  Walk for me       If    you’re     running     from   something       walk      for   me.      If   you’re    loaded   on  something    walk       for     me.        If you’re   holding the gun   but   didn’t   buy  the    bullet    walk   for  me.       Nina     was   walking   up   to    Weldon     in      a trip   of      help him  I think he’s  dying.   Walkforme.     Brother    was   walking    off    a   bridge    through  the  melt of    a     scream.   Walk off  me.    There’s   so  many   screams  in   this   epic.  Walk   slowly    toward      he    with  your   hands   up.      When  you get   to  the  open   car door   duck   in    with  your     hands    up.  We look so good ducking.  Walk for me.    When    the   officer     shoots    you     in     the   good mannered hand    and    then    in     the   gut     walk   for   me.     You’ve    seen   the     walk :    the      wilting   strut   of     a     crossed    over   body         walk    for   me.       Get     a    real      good   look    at   Jesus   so   you    can   identify  him   a  lineup     walk  for  me.     Look   at    god.    Walk  for    me.   Lock    up   God.    Walk      for   me.    Be   me    God.    Walk   for    me.     Long   as       you’re     walking     for   me       run    for   me    

Friday, December 8, 2017

Thursday, December 7, 2017

Wednesday, December 6, 2017

Monday, December 4, 2017

Kipling-esque

You can’t do anything  right.   Your curiosity is violent.  Your empathy is false. Your sympathy is offensive. Your apology is primitive. Your music is sick with envy.  Your muses are sick with lust.  Your limp doesn’t  lean. Your straight line is a wink.  Your whimper catches December ditching  homeroom and only then realizes you stole somebody’s name. Your sister brags about anal on the first date. Your reprimand is an amp pumping meth into the trunk. Your clamour is at Wal-Mart. Your brothers hustle codeine.   Your table  is  covered in mugshots and cocaine.  You love  the way we taste. You  ate my  daddy. Grind is his bones into free rides  daily.  Then  he was on your sweatshirt on the first day of school.  You are a pig. You are the slave.  You are why I’m yellow. You ate at Waffle House on purpose. Your arrogance is how I’m turning gold.  Maybe I can rescue you from your myths about yourself.  Maybe I can hide your cadence and break your name into mine. Maybe I can convince you to hand over your children on Sundays and I’ll teach them to worship Orishas who each one looks like me. Maybe I can teach you to fear your dreams.  Unless they are about everything coming true after death. If you are decent, if you obey me,  if you say sorry or please every time  I see you smiling,  if you let me show you what civilized people do when they are being conquered,  raped, ruined, if you let me borrow your heart, if you rip out your own heart and plant it inside me and then eat your bloody hand,  if you let me beat you from that central territory   and walk through the actual  broken  glass of my area code to watch me take  my father to   the grave.  The  one  you ate.   The one whose blood  you tasted. The one who holds your   hand.   The one who made you  into your brutal savage self again