what are my chirren’s names?
i done had so many,
seen lives blow through wind like ragweed, mm hmm.
my woman-parts at one time were like
a train station–
men whistlin’, comin’ and leavin’.
i never loved the ones who came,
but the ones who left?
they carry pieces of my heart with them in their pockets,
pull me out of their wallets like crisp dollar bills at the liquor sto’
and roll me and smoke me in their funny cigarettes.
baby, i am like ash,
black and grayish-white,
once on fire
but lookin closer to death than life.
i feel like i am
growing in to my beauty.
before, my skin was
confidence fading into cloudy horizon,
but bright morning has finally come
and when i smile,
i swear i can hear birds singing!
from all the yawning around me,
love of self
was a hard seed that just needed nurturing,
extra time soaking in the water of my tears
until sprouting occurred.
now it is flourishing,
deeply rooted like a tree,
arms stretched, strong enough
to hold the weight of the little children
i‘ll be responsible for
feeding reminders of their worth.
it’s as if i gave birth,
belly no longer swollen with doubt,
removal of morning sickness
to past, present and future experiences.
and i am
growing into my beauty,
hoping to be
an adult one day.
Justice League, Fantastic Four, X-Men and Spidey,
all kind of cool but for Hancock i have no need.
i can’t say i was truly surprised to see
that the only black superhero just had to be angry,
constantly sippin, constantly trippin,
ruining everything he touched,
constantly cussin, threatening violence
and i thought it was all a bit much
that he couldn’t get it together until
a white man came to change his life
and after all the man did for him,
Hancock still ran up on his wife.
does anyone else realize that Hollywood is pimpin us?
luring us with stereotype candy wrapped in jokes,
banking on the fact that we will remain unprovoked
by what we see on the silver screen,
blind to the fact
that in a film based in L.A.,
the majority of the Latinos and blacks
were not walking down the street, but inmates
and that it is no mistake
that the Middle Eastern store-owner’s English
was not so great.
i don’t need a black superhero
crafted by an industry out to get paid
because in real life, black superheroes
walk around every day
fight adversity and still find strength in them to pray,
face temptation to take shortcuts but still choose the right way
go to work so they can take care of their families
and raise their children so that the next generation could see
bullets may not bounce off of them
but they still can save the world because
their superhuman power is to survive
so forget Hancock!
real black superheroes don’t have to leave the ground
*Written June 26, 2008*
gun ban lifted in the District…
will the homicide now escalate?
will parents be any more afraid
to let their children play outside?
the last time i checked
some kids get shot by bullets
rushing through windows by surprise
so will the fact that handguns are legal
make any difference for black people?
will Chocolate City have cherry syrup dripping over its brim?
will the blood of potential, the white cell count of future leaders
diminish as if the four quadrants were infected by AIDS within?
it’s seems like there is no aid–
the chocolate melts and goes sour,
vanilla sneaks in to diminish it’s strength like water,
parents protect your sons and daughters,
cuz it’s dark and the summer is hot
pressure spreads until there is no room
and all i can hear approaching in the distance is…
all i can hear approaching in the distance is….
all i can hear approaching in the distance is…
*Written June 19, 2008*
we don’t have to stand or fight,
just live it up,
smoke it up,
drink it up,
sex it up,
but don’t forget to
wrap it up,
rap it up,
two step and snap it up,
tote gats and lock it up,
sell snow white on the block it up,
serve time it up,
booty pop it up,
become young moms and pops it up,
change the world it up,
teach the young boys and girls it up,
take the shackles off our feet it up,
classrooms instead of the street it up cuz
*Written June 19, 2008*
i told a friend today that
too much Lil Wayne kills the brain
now i’d be a liar
if i said i didn’t think the boy spit hot fire
like Chappelle playin Dylan
but while i bob my head to
“she lick-lick-lick-lick-lick me like a lollipop”
something feels wrong
i mean when the self-proclaimed promethazine fiend
who mixes prescription cough syrup with weed
and raps about how it makes his eyes bleed,
Mr. Carter, Birdman Junior, Mr. Get High Rule the World,
has reached a point of exposure
that he reaches little black boys and girls more than
something just don’t feel right.
his mic sounds nice
the flow sounds right
he’s controlling people’s minds
are you a victim of the infiltration?