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.


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.


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)


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

Ordinary pains
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…
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
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


These are the times


These are the signs

The signs of a time

Where the conscious decipher

The truth from prison cells

The signs of Christmas time

Winter signs

Things that go click-click “pow!!!”

When supply can’t meet the demand

These are the signs

The signs of a time

Where hungry Black babes

Get prison time to satisfy their need for sugar

DNA put you at the scene of the crime

These are the signs

Where a machine can read your mind

Give you something to like

Something to hate

Something to crave…something to die for

These are the signs

The signs of a time

When peace can explode

Kill babies, crush lives

Treaty writers tell lies

Revolutions televised

These are the times

These are the signs

Where prophecy is reduced

Sprinkled with powdered sugar

And served cold…

Behold the pale horse and it’s rider

These are the signs

These are the times

Where skylines are autographed

With blood and jet fuel

Innocent, innocent, innocent,

Bystanders gone for black gold

Bragging rights and domination

These are the signs

These are the times

Where man slay the man

Plagues plague the land

And nobody knows why…

These are the times

Anti-Christ superstar on TV

Lead the flock to the slaughter

Daddy loves the daughter too strong

And the priest pats little Johnny gently on his fanny (A crime of passion)

These are the signs

These are the times

Where the majority don’t know

And pay a high price for hell

And the conscious decipher the truth from prison cells…


The world on his shoulders


hand-869322_1920.jpgHe’s been to the deepest of holes,

and to the darkest of rooms.

Felt the cold voice of silence,

and the loudest of booms.


On his shoulders lie calloused wounds,

from the burden of time and hurt.

His broken back and shattered dreams,

testify to his unpaid work.


Still living in the depths of night,

he seeks to bring light near.

He can’t let go of this crushing weight,

his heart is full of fear.


On his feet lie blisters and sores,

his chains drag the ground.

He kicks and screams, writhing in pain,

but no one can hear a sound.


Still living in the deepest of holes,

he dreams of his escape.

Wounds and chains, darkness and pain,

this chance he has to take.


He takes one final leap of fate,

and answered his hearts demands.

The world was never on his shoulders,

it was always in his hands.