Still Strange Fruit…(Never Forget)

They shoot me dead
When they see my face
They shoot me dead
when I forget my “place”
They shoot me dead
When there is no sound
They shoot me dead
When I’m on the ground
They shot me dead
Whether young or old
They shoot me dead
to sadden my soul
They shoot me dead
When my hair is wild
They shoot me dead
Because it’s the style
they shoot me dead
for chasing the bag
they shoot me dead
when my pants sag
they shoot me dead
while begging please
they shoot me dead
for smoking trees
they shoot me dead
for praising Allah
they shoot me dead
for driving a car
they shoot me dead
when I refuse their glory
they shoot me dead
then rewrite the story
they shoot me dead
to kill my root
they shoot me dead
cause I’m still strange fruit…(never forget)

 

 

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To embrace our space…

The city is alive with life.

Blacks grin in the sun through the hot winds and rains

happiness grows unique in hells fire

but there is relief,

relief to smile, relief to laugh, to scream,

embrace our space.

THIS IS OUR CITY!!!

And we don’t own, but who cares

we give the city color,

we give it spice, we give blood,

and we’re here to stay.

THIS IS OUR CITY!!!

We scorch the streets

careless with care, bleeding detachment

and we grin,

grin face to face with the fires of hell,

but there is relief.

Relief to scream, relief to laugh, to smile,

to embrace our space…

Slaughter of the Innocents (A Chicago minute)

origianl-exerpt

Not easy to break something broken A city cursed with the plague of blood-Lust, Hunger-pains, and Raging-fires

No-gains Momma-tears Gang-signs Steel-toys
Chevy bubbles and dick boys
…Normality…

Ordinary pains
98.6 degrees burns the evidence to ash so you never
ever…..ever….ever
know what really happened here
Nobody from the outside really knows
Lil babies born and die the same day
…buried in the sea of factory made bastards and our voices scream pain with no words
language understood but hardly to fluency
so we maneuver and twist in the face of the icy winds
And off in the distance Strange fruit is plucked viciously from concrete trees Long tee’s and dragging denim catches the blame, but are they really players in this old game?
The fruit pickers grin with blue shields and long swords
slicing the young fruits as the approach maturity
some get missed
slated to only fall to the ground
…rotten…
yet still sweet
but too rotten to be acceptable to those above
and even those are smashed, soil mixed under the heel of the harvester
We have to ponder
…What a way to go…
you know
Being born a beautiful fruit in this wretched garden
A place where short memories are in abundance
deep pockets filled with denial
…yet we remain…

All in the shadow of mountains man made strips of green sprinkled down from the rooftops downtown
Like two beacons atop a mountain of gold
ever present floating amongst the clouds
Shining
Reminding
Teasing
yet untouchable are the bastions that hold those coins…
Why here?
Why did they flee to this wretched soil?
Why us?
Why we?
We the American untouchables expected to feel blessed
expected to proclaim patriotism and recite battle hymns to our young
expect to remain non-violent while the police continue to pluck us from the trees
just as the strange fruit were picked by their fathers a generation ago
they remain resolute and strong

Acirema em…..(post holocaust)

Acirema em barely alive in a post holocaust haze
Post holocaust African
Aushwitz, Alabama
Bombs over Birmingham
Schindler set up shop in Chicago
and steam billows to the heavens (hallelujah!)
while steel cools amidst the smoldering souls
And in high places!!!!
Ah yes, those distant high places…
smoldering still, we eagerly await a benevolent cool hand reaching from above
to save us…
That hand never arrived
and us stood looking high with vaseline shined faces (glowing)
smiling with genuine care for the issues that make life worth living in the first place
we stayed that way
and we stay that way
this is our lot
that is until death calls us to find rest
Acirema em

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Prison Observations (Young Black Male 9/24/04)

 

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Original Painting by Y. Shabazz

I can see it in his youthful eyes

a vacant stare, a violent glare

An air of ignorance and fear

He’s embracing the lowest rung

afraid to climb higher

he can’t express what he feels

at least not with words

so he speaks with stares, glares, and fist

his limited vocabulary binds his wrist

as he stands bound…

I can see his youthful eyes

watching death approach with that same

vacant stare…