here
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
here
words and names on pages and pages
words and names
bowed low
by the bullshit of polytrix
perplexed by
the amorality of polytrixsters
here
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
we
were somewhere else
here
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
here
children playing on the playground
“you play too much
everybody play too much
I ain’t playing”
here
this used to be a black neighborhood
still here
‘have no fear’
here
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
running
praying
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
ready
here
face towards the graveyard
feet in the ocean
here
What a wonderful summary of politricks2016 as per North American Africans.
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