Throw up a fist for black power and two fingers for peace
Give the word a piece of my mind as I stand up to speak
Study the past as I act for the future
Invest in today so we'll have something good for tomorrow
Borrow a few words from Malcolm
A little bravery from King
With the resolve of Gandhi
As I perfect my Immortal Technique
Wake up the world with the message that's calling me
Scream for what I want but go out and get what we need
Dismiss all this ignorant bliss and give the people what we miss
Deprogram the foolish funk and make the minds bump
Get out my cooking utensils and prepare some food for thought
Steer up some conversations
Crack open some brains then pour in a few facts
Now walk out the kitchen and take FREEDOM back
Before I start this poem, I'd like to ask you to join me in a moment of silence in honor of those who died in the World Trade Center and the Pentagon last September 11th.
I would also like to ask you to offer up a moment of silence for all of those who have been harassed, imprisoned, disappeared, tortured, raped, or killed in retaliation for those strikes, for the victims in both Afghanistan and the U.S.
And if I could just add one more thing
A full day of silence for the tens of thousands of Palestinians who have died at the hands of U.S.-backed Israeli forces over decades of occupation.
Six months of silence for the million and-a-half Iraqi people, mostly
children, who have died of malnourishment or starvation as a result
of an 11-year U.S. embargo against the country.
Before I begin this poem, two months of silence for the Blacks under
Apartheid in South Africa, where homeland security made them aliens
in their own country
Nine months of silence for the dead in Hiroshima and Nagasaki, where
death rained down and peeled back every layer of concrete, steel, earth and
skin and the survivors went on as if alive.
A year of silence for the millions of dead in Viet Nam - a people,
not a war - for those who know a thing or two about the scent of burning
fuel, their relatives' bones buried in it, their babies born of it.
A year of silence for the dead in Cambodia and Laos, victims of a
secret war ... ssssshhhhh .... Say nothing ... we don't want them to learn
that they are dead.
Two months of silence for the decades of dead in Colombia, whose
names, like the corpses they once represented, have piled up and slipped off
our tongues.
Before I begin this poem,
An hour of silence for El Salvador ...
An afternoon of silence for Nicaragua ...
Two days of silence for the Guetmaltecos ...
None of whom ever knew a moment of peace in their living years.
45 seconds of silence for the 45 dead at Acteal, Chiapas
25 years of silence for the hundred million Africans who found their
graves far deeper in the ocean than any building could poke into the sky.
There will be no DNA testing or dental records to identify their remains.
And for those who were strung and swung from the heights of sycamore
trees in the south, the north, the east, and the west ... 100 years of
silence
..
For the hundreds of millions of indigenous peoples from this half of
right here,
Whose land and lives were stolen,
In postcard-perfect plots like Pine Ridge, Wounded Knee, Sand Creek,
Fallen Timbers, or the Trail of Tears.
Names now reduced to innocuous magnetic poetry on the refrigerator of
our consciousness ...
So you want a moment of silence?
And we are all left speechless
Our tongues snatched from our mouths
Our eyes stapled shut
A moment of silence
And the poets have all been laid to rest
The drums disintegrating into dust
Before I begin this poem,
You want a moment of silence
You mourn now as if the world will never be the same
And the rest of us hope to hell it won't be.
Not like it always has been
Because this is not a 9-1-1 poem
This is a 9/10 poem,
It is a 9/9 poem,
A 9/8 poem,
A 9/7 poem
This is a 1492 poem.
This is a poem about what causes poems like this to be written
And if this is a 9/11 poem, then
This is a September 11th poem for Chile, 1971
This is a September 12th poem for Steven Biko in South Africa, 1977
This is a September 13th poem for the brothers at Attica Prison, New
York,
1971.
This is a September 14th poem for Somalia, 1992.
This is a poem for every date that falls to the ground in ashes
This is a poem for the 110 stories that were never told
The 110 stories that history chose not to write in textbooks
The 110 stories that that CNN, BBC, The New York Times, and Newsweek
ignored
This is a poem for interrupting this program.
And still you want a moment of silence for your dead?
We could give you lifetimes of empty:
The unmarked graves
The lost languages
The uprooted trees and histories
The dead stares on the faces of nameless children
Before I start this poem we could be silent forever
Or just long enough to hunger,
For the dust to bury us
And you would still ask us
For more of our silence.
If you want a moment of silence
Then stop the oil pumps
Turn off the engines and the televisions
Sink the cruise ships
Crash the stock markets
Unplug the marquee lights,
Delete the instant messages,
Derail the trains, the light rail transit
If you want a moment of silence, put a brick through the window of
Taco Bell,
And pay the workers for wages lost
Tear down the liquor stores, The townhouses, the White Houses, the jailhouses, the Penthouses and the Playboys.
If you want a moment of silence,
Then take it On Super Bowl Sunday,
The Fourth of July During Dayton's 13 hour sale
Or the next time your white guilt fills the room where my beautiful
people have gathered
You want a moment of silence
Then take it
Now,
Before this poem begins.
Here, in the echo of my voice,
In the pause between goosesteps of the second hand
In the space between bodies in embrace,
Here is your silence
Take it.
But take it all
Don't cut in line.
Let your silence begin at the beginning of crime.
But we,
Tonight we will keep right on singing
For our dead.
Forgive me because I am not that thug brother
I mean I could only be that good brother
You know that compassionate lover
To show that I loved ya
Forgive me for not hitting you only hugging ya
For kissing you and not shoving ya
For holding you and not punching ya
Forgive me for treating you as if you had class
And for not treating you like trash
Or throwing you through that glass
Oh, did I mention for not putting my foot in your ass…
I thought you were on that other shit when you said that I was too nice
But I guess it is us good men who always have to pay price
I'm sorry my mouth is not full of platinum and gold
My feelings for you are not heartless and cold
I have a bald fade instead of cornrows
And I'm truly sorry that the bracelet I bought you
Is not worth more than the ring you ex-boyfriend stole
I apologize that I mostly wear ties and suits
Instead of du-rags and boots
I'm sorry that I try to keep the lights on
Instead of worrying about how much ice I got on
I apologize that I can't bleed the block
And run from cops
I mean I would, by my time is consumed by this 9 to 5 job I got
I apologize I don't disown my kids and keep up with drama
And I'm terribly sorry I don't have four or five baby mamas
I'm truly sorry that I don't spend most of my time with my patnas playing sports
And I wear 3-piece suits even though I don't go to court
I'm sorry my name is not caught up in the he said, she said, you heard it
And that I don't have guilty of criminal charges verdicts
I'm trying to figure out what I've done for you not to like me
Please forgive the fact that I'm not "all in the club spitting game in my white tee"
I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me
So please accept my sarcastic, I mean sincere apology
Cordially flared to fall the distance,
His figure frozen in the position of blue
morbidly apathetic regarding a change of heart
he has been a door mat for muddy sexy feet
meticulously manicured & polished by a master
A collage of scents danced at his door
Names mesh in a stew in the memory of a man
in despair
Caution resides in every fiber where doubt is
imagined as fact
but as a premonition begs the past to accept
this knowledge as future history, he knew
somehow her soul was the puzzle that he missed until that point.
She picked up the mat & washed it
and hung it on the wall as a
prized piece of art to be cherished &
he died in her arms from his former self.
Its as if I have no real control over myself. I feel primal and savage with every waking moment. An animal is what I am. The urges are incredible. The adrenaline is overwhelming. I feel insane. Giving in to all of this seems to be the inevitable path. My hair is long and unruly, like a desperate beast. My face is un kept and un-shaven clearly showing I have no interest in appearances. Dark circles have formed under my eyes, evidence to my lack of sleep. My lips are chapped to the point of blood and the gaunt form of my body magnifies its already unsightly effects. The left ear that has recently been pierced, is oozing with what seems to be a delicate mixture of blood and puss. What could be called my beard is more of a disgusting nest of brown and grey hairs.
Why am I doing this?
Sympathy maybe. Maybe I am trying to show myself how much of a wreak I am, so that I can effectively change myself. Maybe I am doing it because I like this monster I have become. You know I have been described as a psychotic lunatic.
My chest is shallow yet defined. What muscle I have is clearly showing itself. As if desperately trying to display the strength that it desires. My arms weed out of my torso like angry little branches. Though there is very little muscle visible in these branches, they pulse and resonate what strength they have. They are truly hatful little creatures that mock me at every turn. The coarse little hairs that cover my torso imply a slightly masculine nature, they hint at my desires to be a strong man. My back being, the muscle that has kept me up for so long is now bent and broken. An overused reliance, a tired old dog. It is bent and broken, yet refuses to let me down, sacrificing more than it can give at most times.
Maybe I am doing this for comfort, or to impress those around me. I don’t think that’s it. I think I want to write. I want to overcome everything, to defeat all of my problems and doubts. I want nothing more that to be happy. I think that’s why I am doing this. I must win this fight. I must beat everyone, and overcome myself. This anger, this animal must be overcome.
My cold red eyes, are clearly active despite my tired persona. They flare with anger, passion and desire. I want to take. I want what I deserve. No one can stand in my way. The flare of my life is in these eyes. I am what I make myself. I long to be a virtuous soul, not a vengeful hate fueled animal. I must work myself out of the frenzy of my life.
My legs are clearly defined muscles, the one piece of me that I can still rely on. They will take me places I do not desire to be and will inspire my body to move. They will carry me forward. The muscles that hang from there bones is strong yet tangible, it is a practical strength that only the wanderer can acquire.
As a whole I am a creature, little less than a beast. I look to the future to change this, but for the time I am the savage. I will indulge in this until I can take it no more. I am wild, an untamable monster. With only a shell of virtue guiding it along. I will break. Whether this will end well or not I can’t yet tell. I only know for certain that I am a train wreak, a unpleasant skeleton of who I used to be. A rage filled Zombie. A walking Hate Machine. An animal. You saw me in the bins; am that chokora.
End of sunlight hours, moment for home. What an elongated traumatic day it was today… ‘Get this cheque to Bank of Africa…’ ‘Go buy me Telkom Airtime…’ ‘Take this design to Lino Typesetters…’ ‘Deliver these samples to GCN…’ ‘Have you completed the Stantech design?’ ‘NO! ¿’ ‘You are becoming very slow…’ Heartrending component is that tomorrow it starts all over again… The entrance sways open Tok! Tok! Tok! her high heels not in favor of the floor. ‘Morning everyone…’ Ingoing the MD’s office. My extension phone rings. The heart’s pulsation mislays its rhythm… Lord hoard me from cardiac arrest. Vast panic in my direction again. Fingers quivering at customary room temperature. What a charge to gather myself. With a snake oil smile I pick the call. ‘What are you working on?’ ‘This, this and that…’ The admin draws near my station And undertones; ‘Am out, pick the calls for me and give this L.P.O to Will Art.’ The trips through my station to hers in an hour; Permits you not to grace with your presence the ‘save a life walk’ You are as jaded as can be. Tea break, yeah! time for black tea. No options. Eyes glued to the monitor. Attention & concentration at its best. The extension phone rings again. ‘Come to my station.’ Walks to her office civilly. ‘Have you checked Ndonye’s e-mail?’ ‘He has looked at his website and all he saw was the old one…’ *But I well-run the content and developed fresh pages?* Tasks …tasks… Explanations for why this And more explanations for why that. But in the end its end of sunlight hours, moment for home.
When there is no friend, When life is on the dead end, When world is not a paradise, When your confidence dies, Tell yourself - Go on, THIS IS LIFE!
When things don't go right, When there is no ray of light, And its too hard to survive, Tell yourself - Go on, THIS IS LIFE!
When there is competition to face, When you are lagging behind in the race, When you've lost faith in God, When you're betrayed by a fraud, Tell yourself - Go on, THIS IS LIFE!
When others don't respect you, When you're not amongst the admirable few, When for a question, you can't find a solution, When all you're sure about, is confusion, Tell yourself - Go on, THIS IS LIFE!
When your destination is miles apart, When you don't know where to start, When all you see around is pain, When your hardwork is in vain, Tell yourself - Go on, THIS IS LIFE!
Even though all this happens just have faith in self & face the life with smile, things will surely change one day because as said "THIS IS LIFE ...
Too intricate so plain the discrepancy amid odd and even divinity and iniquity derived from the heart Confessed by the tongue Or else deeds Aid me to turn over a new leaf Halt depravity Voracity Egoism Shoplifting She gets to the altar recites the scripture Lust at me again!!!!! A coin shines from the pew, Picks it . They come to blows. Over the coin. Why it easy doing wrong? thrashing about to live right, flesh lets the mind down. Will higher though! Every minute remorseful Made some one cry, Believe a lie Lie Die mourn.
The fiery zest cultivates with each tic on the clock With towering ego, for all time optimistic . Phony smiles through the uphill struggle. Fog blurred my vision. Sun was not for assistance; mirage on the road got me slowing. But the destiny was on my mind. Moved on. No terminus in this voyage. I brought it to a standstill. What about the gusto? I have gone too far to stop. Getting myself together… Threw the baggage on my rear. to infinity the crossing continued. Oh! God bring me the Horizon. Been on my feet through the four seasons! Basis? The destiny was on my mind. But the peak is the sweetest situate. A glance back shows my background in black and white. but that is when life was plastic. The leaves desiccated and fresh ones blossomed.
