Broken Staircase
je pense donc je suis
cogito ergo sum
I exist,
I exist in a space where it doesn’t matter if my words get heard
or not
as long as they get spit, then the evil is purged
and for a second or an hour there is
powerfully erratic eradication of uneducation
through erudition
my perdition is the mission I set for myself to be a source of help in this
this
Carnival of Cannibals
WE ARE NOT ANIMALS!
I have aims
A
I
M
S
Art
Is
My
Saviour
my power is my perdition
so once again, it doesn’t matter if you hear me
or not
I’m at the bottom of a broken staircase
and I’m going
to the top.
a silence of three parts
the first part starts with a heartbeat
hard steel bars and concrete
it invites me (on soft feet)
to meet (between beats)
and be
…still…
with my will.
this solitary silence will not kill my ambition
nor will my thirst for violence
still the ignition of
synaptic
atomic blasts
plastic neuroscience leaving me believing we each can be
prometheus
here birdy, birdy.
have a little flame with my liver.
I am proud, so proud to be the
giver of this fyre;
to elucidate a little darkness
from my cocoon of silence
and piss somebody’s God off
the second part is a little more coarse than the first
it sits in the space between
dandelion fluffy fibers
propelled aloft
like streamlined tygers
to climactically
CRASH
into the ash
of the house
where my momma taught me that a
real man
can (and will)
put hands (and feet)
on women (and children)
the third piece is a real beast
it is the
real me
it is a belly full of ice cubes that I use to prove that I am
just like
You
I grasp this third silence
close and tight
it’s my warm blanket
in this cold night
and I hide
and look into the eyes
of my enemy
the inner me
who’s still
scared, alone and hungry
you want me to be funny?
I will be if you feed me.
what nobody needs me?
I hate being needy.
can anybody
…anybody…
…anybody…
hear me?
Warpath
You know me
The Aggresive, Progressive
Warrior Poet
placed in a place of persistent stagnation
by my refusal to resist the temptation
of the plantation
Overseer
when I overhear
A bad black joke cracked
or a vicious verbal whip snapped
in my momma’s Name
when the pain of her passing is still fresh
there’s no rest for the weary
when the wicked demon
wants to kick its way out
of this box
I unlock
my closed mind
and find
revelation
in the desperate, pleading calls
of the broken souls around me
trying to incite me and bind me
to this cage
with one more exciting act of
RAGE
…so i behayve…
hayve as a hive of africanized bees when the Chinese
Murder Hornets are on the
Warpath
don’t laugh
because there ain’t shit funny
I’m running a marathon every minute
spinning circles
and leaping hurdles
while my feet stay stuck
as fuck
in this shit-scented muck
good thing I had me a big bad black mommy
who taught me
to avoid all of the
dumbass drama
perpetuated by uneducated
idiots
who only want to stand still
in their place
placated by the soporific susurrus of
somnambulance
but I can taste the chance for change
and I’ll be god-damned before I let it pass me by
so thank you again, Momma
for the backbone
for the wings
for the fyre
Momma, thank you for the pain
and if melanin is warpaint
then my skin is stained dark and my heart pumps
pure purple love
while the light you shine from above
illuminates my path
Now laugh
and watch me take step
after stubborn step
on the Warpath
