preamble

We the people
who forsake the souls of those who came before us
know better than to curse in front of grandma dem
in order to form a more perfect family
full of beautiful blemishes and fatal flaws
that merely characterize us as caricatures of ourselves

our dosage of domestic dormancy comes at the hands of those who feed us
be they breadwinners or born losers
for there is no such thing as just an injustice
without the meritorious marvel of our self-defense mechanisms
which we subliminally put in place to shield our egos
from toning it down a notch

shots fired

i from Edisto

i from Edisto
the capital of the sticks
we built these foundations upon bricks
laid by men with bare hands and even barer souls

i am the forgotten Bengali child of the black dust
cleaning D-cell batteries that
that leave my lungs accumulated with clouds of coal
yet, i never could quite tell which way the wind blows

i am the son of boll weevil
born in cotton gins
the bastardized child of unforgiven sins
my cousins never kissed
yet, the taste of fresh shrimp and grits is indeed sweet bliss

i am from the boogie down
instead of a crib i slept atop my boombox radio
my face is hidden not by a blanket but by a hoody
i still wear no socks
my soul is live and in stereo
hard knock life was my theme song, son

i come from the bases of the Blue Hills
where we lay in pits of snow reserved for those
who need balance in their lives
but these bunny slopes don't match our hues
so thus i am subdued by these three stripes on your shoes
to which you cling to like a rite of passage

i am from the borough that keeps it thorough
standing strong on my own two
this bodega is my way of fighting for my small slice of the pie 24/7 on through
i found myself weaving in and out consciousness
at the corner of Nostrand and the Parkway
i know the smell of curry goat from a mile away

i am from the sweet grass baskets of the sea islands
i used to give warm hugs and hieroglyphic pounds
but i only give head nods now
you see, my brittle hands ache in arthritic agony
yet, my clenhced fists are forces with which to be reckoned

let the dirt road children rejoice
in a harmonious symphony
let the senior citizen gangs put down their canes
and march in unison like the S1Ws of Public Enemy

let this sharecropper blood in our veins
speak volumes
but it cannot substitute for reverence
we cannot feign our existence
we smile only to acknowledge our parallel paths
and pray to sand dune goads
we offer okra soup as our homage

who are we to be unafraid of the weeping willows that hover above our fantasies
like spiritual remnants of our deferred laziness
our solace comes solely from the salt water that beckoned
our ancestors back to those haunted shores
in search of wisdom
with bare-feet and gullah-lined tongues
we are the children of Edisto
swinging from tree limbs too connect our dots and our genes
huddled on shrimp boats to cast wider nets
fishing for our dreams

monday morning briefing

The objective view from the mirror above
was closer to fiction than it appeared
in the media's immortalizd memories of martyrdom

We proudly shunned the cajoling overtures
of the jump-out boys on our award tour
from the south ward of this city of bricks
where they lay five down by and with the trey-

pounds and daps no longer resound like thunder claps
in these midnight blue steel skies
now its caps that got peeled from
former riverfront mill towns to chill town
where we simply stand sentry and catch a glimpse
of ground zero from afar

so our silence is our complicity
at first glance, the simplicity of block corner violence is in its pervasiveness
but after the double-take
it is evidenced by the self-defense mechanisms we use
to shut ourselves down
while we've wasted countless thousands of cuffed wrists
with an iplicit acceptance of this recidivist sense
of upheaval, dismay, and concession
where gin and juice go two for one like jolly ranchers
to suffice as our elixir
and mixed with the reoccurring agony of Watts riots
that pale in comparison to the collective mind-numbing
that decades of banging has brought forth

we used to play on courtyards lined with wood chips
and dotted with pride-colored equipment
but now next to the swings and slides
you can find paraphernalia of a different kind
and the tags that were once abstract poetic works of street artisans
are now illegible ghetto hieroglyphics
devoid of subtle beauty and meaning
backdropped against sand lots
where time passes like silent gas that sneaks up
and chokes the life you of your lungs
and the blocks we posted up on from thursday to sunday
become fodder for monday morning briefings
that come as no surprise
the mastheads may be different
but you can surmise that the headlines are all the same
from richmond to hialeah
dorchester to strawberry mansion
non-grown dark-hued boys had their souls sapped
and muted hymns and belated hallelujahs only served to
temporarily console the emotions of
already-empty-hearted youth
across the country
with no poise
no purpose
and no path to get where they need to be
so we crowd these church pews to mourn and pay homage to
loved ones long lost and simultaneoulsy seek solace in the
comfort of a safe haven
not those cold sidewalks of america's hoods
where they can avoid the same scenes
the same yellow tape
the flasing lights
of yet another barren block riddled with
barricaded windows
and hollow shell souls searching for meaning
searching for reason
as rainy seasons wash away our tears and
the spilled blood of yet another young black male that once dripped
on this very spot where we casually pour something out
and struggle just to get a grip