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)




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…

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…


This unbelievable journey of mine (2003)


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.

A poem about life

I wrote a poem about life,

and it jumped off the page.

Screaming and kicking,

so full of rage.


I tried to embrace the poem,

to comfort it’s pain.

It pushed me away,

my efforts in vain.


It said, “You don’t know me,

why now do you crave.

You never appreciated me before,

and now you are my slave.”


Its words cut into my soul,

and now I reminisce.

I guess I never knew the poem,

as much as I knew this.


His enemies are youth and time,

for both I thought were free.

I ran from one, and hid from the other,

now they caught up with me.


I knew that I would pay the price,

this poem was here to tell.

How he could be like unchained bliss,

or the fire of living hell.


“I own you now so don’t fight,

no word can win this duel.

You had me under complete control,

until you played the fool.”


“If you knew my enemies as you said,

you would have taken heed.

Now be a man and take the pain,

and suffer for your greed.”


I tried to run but could not flee,

for life was very strong.

A shame I wasted youth and time,

and did my life so wrong.