they are smiling
like its a celebration,
i can hear an applause
through the rope and
bulging eyes and
distant cries of
the innocent and the guilty
and time...
things havent changed
as much as one would
love to believe

to give us a few
more acres and an ass
ain't reparations,
to tip the earth on
its axis and rearrange
space-time wouldnt be
enough for the
bloody necks,
the deferred dreams
the unaswered cries
of the afro-american
dream drenched in
a middle passage nightmare.


show me a plantation
and i'll show you
and urban re-concentration
camp, shadowed by
skyline and paycheck
and affirmative action
and the "right" to vote
for bobbing heads in
an ocean of white lies

cut the fucking rope,
tie the children of the
lost souls that thought
hatred was the right
of a God that was
made in "our" image.

strange fruit grows
on dead trees,
but the root of madness
is not of the soil
which holds the stories
of darkened flesh,

tamed only
by the complacency
of forgetting...

the struggle
is so alive,
we try to kill
it everyday with
nothing but

more strange fruit.


RIP (the 400-year black man woman bastard children of american blood boiling hypocrisy drowning out the voices of the white curse)...peace. love. a light above all...darkness...living.




*********************************

she loves me...more than she knows.

exist in limbo.

"when my love comes to see me it’s
just a little like music,a
little more like curving colour(say
orange)
against silence,or darkness…" -e.e. cummings


"we are accidents waiting to happen" -radiohead

"Poetry is a kind of distilled insinuation. It’s a way of expanding and talking around an idea or a question. Sometimes, more actually gets said through such a technique than a full frontal assault." -Yusef Komunyakaa

"The Black Artist's role in America is to aid in the destruction of America as he knows it. His role is to report and reflect so precisely the nature of the society, and of himself in that society, that other men will be moved by the exactness of his rendering and, if they are black men, grow strong through this moving, having seen their own strength, and weakness; and if they are white men, tremble, curse, and go mad, because they will be drenched with the filth of their evil."

-Amiri Baraka, from "State/meant" in the essay, "Home"

"My love is my soul's imagination. How do I love thee?...Imagine." -Saul Williams

***********************************
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myself is sculptor of
your body’s idiom:
the musician of your wrists;
the poet who is afraid
only to mistranslate
a rhythm in your hair...
-E.E. Cummings