Early morning on 79th street
Watching the sun spill gentle down gangways
Through the treetops
Gently it spills…
And for a moment, just for a solitary moment
Serinity lives here among us.
You see, we know peace too, we know love,
Grace, soul, and spirit
But the hunger pangs sometimes get the babies…
They get the babies
They get the babies
…riled up and angry in their search for sugar cause reallyall they searching for is something sweet to offset the bitter..
But in the morning… early in the morning
we bathe in the quiet beauty of 79th street in the morning…
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
98.6 degrees burns the evidence to ash so you never
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
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…
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
yet untouchable are the bastions that hold those coins…
Why did they flee to this wretched soil?
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
This unbelievable journey of mine has taken me to places I should never forget.
Wood lined winding roads lead to tents covered by Georgia sun, all glowing,
anxious with my government gun.
A youth with virgin eyes and ears, open to the breeze of other negro losses,
closed to the legacy of my own brown skin.
betrayed by my so-called uncle with dreams of red, white, and blue picket fences,
white washes, houses on hills, and burial plots in the sea of unknowns.
The benefits don’t benefit my need to be independent of the plantation lined streets of the melting pot that stole my spice,
my oils, my wind, and my fire.
Your nephew I’m not,
maybe a victim…
Of your Georgia sun all glowing and anxious, virgin eyes and ears raped under the barrel of your government gun,
with the breeze of negro losses blowing on unknown graves,
with my brown skin lost for your granddaddies slaves.
This unbelievable journey of mine has made me furious over time,
and the boil has calmed a little bit…
but this journey of mine I should never forget.