Voting, 2016


body art artafria ethopia surma


at the front of the line

showed up to make my voice heard

that’s what they say

here to pay for my ticket to the conversation

to be a part of the public sphere


words and names on pages and pages

words and names

bowed low

by the bullshit of polytrix

perplexed by

the amorality of polytrixsters


paying for my ticket to the conversation

soundtrack in my ear

‘have no fear’

praying tipping points

refusing the lesser of two evils

standing in my light

my truth my real reality

my feet in the ocean

face towards the graveyard

remembering to remember

how I used to believe

small brown hand over

my black heart my democratic

start dancing to the tune

played by my parents with

my great grand parents bones

we a bunch of refugees

migrating through the confines

of American’s dreaming

freedom from narratives

of origin soaked in blood

dreams that smell of cotton

dead buffalo Kentucky bourbon

and ferverent wishes


were somewhere else


living all outside ourself

trying to survive our skin

uphill sisyphus trying to get in

out of the whirlwind

here at the crooked table

where democracy ain’t saved

me             here

shopping for new dealers

got my ticket

with the old brown and black ladies

a few black men

the droves of young peacock haired people

you can never tell what tune

they dance to dipped in privilege

oozing here-ness manifesting it everywhere

rolling back to the slave pens

sometimes beside you

sometimes dividing you

‘have no fear’

‘have no fear’

they buying guns and ammo by the barrel

smells of fear

Obama’s picture over the stage

TIME underneath it

it’s been time

was pass time when we came

it’t time to go again

we been refugees desparate to root

seeds spiraling in the wind

we are disaspora

brave & tragic

sign of perptural resistence


children playing on the playground

“you play too much

everybody play too much

I ain’t playing”


this used to be a black neighborhood

still here

‘have no fear’


sad and mad

thinking about the shit we never had

democracy could still free me

‘have no fear’

praying tipping points

and whats beyond

whispers say it’s all for sale

it’s a clown show

todays the parade

got my ticket to the charade

words and names on pages and pages

we dying for change

feel some kind of way

trying to maintain

all i know

it can’t stay the same

silence in the face of violence

people sleeping on the street

tents stretch far as eyes can see

walls of garbage

this won’t be my great grands harvest

we been refugees



voting to get free

moving for opportunity

marching because of injustice

standing up even when it was just us

knowing this is beyond us

we pray for tipping points

if its time

bring it on

there are no more words

in this poem



face towards the graveyard

feet in the ocean