Unwritten (From the collection INK)

unless you can write food on a plate

words on paper have little to do

with empty bellies

bloated

                                                   as if hunger were a being

 growing in the vacuum

drawing flies to eyes

 puckering brows

painting

something that has no translation in eyes

needs to be felt to overstand

such profanity

has little to do with shades of indigo slanted

or so one would think

words on paper

can not cut through flesh

sever arteries

causing you to bleed out

in a sandstorm of depleted uranium

that will kill your killers

unconceived children

an irony unwritten

in the law books and treaties deleted from

history manicured to fit the agenda of the storyteller

not all tragedies are staged for appreciation

some are footnotes in unsung operas

that don’t make the page

no manual for humanity

nothing written connects

your brother’s homelessness

to the depths of your callousness

no strict correlation

 between his lack

 & your greed

no concordance

that translates your hunger in soul to

his children’s emaciated  bodies

in need of milk and human kindness

where is the bible

that starts with an English youth

who learns to

leverage and rationalize

his right to a future

against the existence of the

children of the Longhouse

where is the sequel that solves the riddles

plaguing Bobby Johnson’s sons

who after being sold down countless rivers

overstand their desperate need

  to decipher

midnight polytrix

the fall of Mubarak

& all the faces of Gaddafi

along with lies about a post race era

offered by a café au lait Harvard boy

wearing a skull & bones tattoo

w/ handcuffs

I am creating a global coloring book

to teach manners to nappy headed heretics

warning them about the danger

of harboring assumptions

that have been spoon fed

& of the folly of

playing with knives

in close quarter & shared circumstance

 that cross

borders

 cultures

&  realities

clashing like zombies in tanks

leaving little room for allegiance

multiplying chaos

in this thin fratricidal air

we sipping

like it’s the final call

About Ayodele Nzinga, MFA, PhD

I create; therefore I am.
This entry was posted in Black Arts, INK, Poetry, spokenword, Uncategorized and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

One Response to Unwritten (From the collection INK)

  1. Excellent post! I enjoyed reading it very much.

    Poetry will never loose it’s touch even as we enter this digital age. Thanks for sharing.

    Like

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