“A riot is the language of the unheard.” – Martin Luther King Jr.
My 1st born should be Malcolm or Muhammad
Rare players hold the line with their lives
Crème not to be trifled
Faster than bullets and endorsements
Podiums won kicked out from under us
Hands echoed by a throng believing in a dream
You and I represent all
We build children in the image we have of them
broken upon the black man’s rack
My father rock crushes and road builds.
My mother cotton labors.
Prison rewards them
with me no better than a bushel.
Women with dry breasts feed families
scraps of soul cooked food.
Children wash their dreams away
Against armies still in blue and gray.
Fear is an auction platform
thought black men have demonstrated worth.
We sing, we dance, we play sometimes strangely
indifferently fanned by green prevailing winds.