Inhuman.

I saw his pictures today.
On TV. Black folks on the streets in black n white... years ago... before i even was.
Let me tell you something...i dont think they did that for me.
No.
Is it possible to be inhuman enough to be so selfless.
No.
Somehow i know they did it for they; them same folks hol'n up posts, scribbled literatures of short words hoping to speak volumes on cards...
They yell. But words are words.
And sometimes it takes years. For those words to get to their ears.

And i saw that man, standing on that one podium, screaming how he had a dream.
I wonder what he would think if he was to be here, if he'd still dream.
If he'd scream his heart out into the crowd, yelling out dreams of freedom...
And if he did, of what would it be?
Freedom from white gods who hold the keys to the mass's senses, or from the contaminating influences of our time
Freedom from those gun shots chasing the people, or the black knukled shooter's range?
FREEDOM!
from the laws that permits a man to love his child in such disgusting ways, i cant dare to imagine...
freedom.... from a mother that makes her child bear it.
Free...
I tell you. We all want to be free. He wanted to be free. I want to be free.
I would ask if, if he was here. If he was still a dreamer.
And why he'd still dream.

But thats not why i write.
I write to thank him for doing for himself, what he did.
I thank him for doing for us what he did.
I thank you.
For being, inhuman.

Most respected. May your people learn to be inhuman, in ways like yours.

RIP, M.L. King.

Anger, an evidence that we are slaves to yesterday

"Black people are tempramental"


do you wonder why?
a black female slave has a baby,
a lil black nigger
as cute as a toad
with a flat wide nose
forsaken for the melanin
in his skin
not compared to chocolate
but treated as mud
this he-mud-nigger
grows to know
he cant exactly play with miss Lauren
cuz Lauren looks like snow
and although he is twice her age
he MUST call her "m'am", and do as she says
and when he asked why
he was tol'd
"because u only a nucca"

so this man grows
to feel low as low
to work twice as hard
and earn only enough
to feed...to remian alive
just enough strength
to slave off the next day
this black man grows
to wonder why
if God had a choice
why he picked Him to be a nigga
why couldnt he have a life of assurance
a life that is destined for fufilling promises
a life that is precious and preserved
a life where he wouldnt have to fight
and strugle
and stumble
every single motha fokin day!

a life where he could be white
and look just like snow
with brunette soft curls
and maybe even golden straight hair
with the thinnest pink lips
a perfect pair of blue eyes
and the sharpest pointy nose
why he oculdnt be a white man
and own slaves
so he could be waited on
hand and foot
and he could sell other frogy niggaz
and make him some profit.

"Why are we so temperamental?"
because we are angry
and anger itself, has become our culture
because when that black female nigger
told her froggy fat-lipped son
that he couldnt play with white kids
she hated herself for it
she felt guilt
knowing that she brought into this world
yet, another black man
to serve in the fields
or maybe if lucky,
serve in the home
of yet!
another white man.

anger has become our culture.
it is now "black" to speak up
because we have had to learn
and adjust
to the life that was bestowed upon us
so that anger
becomes the lesson that is taught
by the forefathers
to the young
and now its managed
to merge itself into us!
incorporate its genetic codes
into our DNA!
so that now
we are the generation
of the black people
who are no more slaves to the white man
in most ways, we have managed to strip him
of his power
we now have freedom from the white monster
but we remain slaves nonetheless,
slaves! REGARDLESS! motha fuckin slavessss still!
to our own past.
to our history.
to years ago.
and yesterday.
and i too, portray this as i ask you
"what were we; my people... before slavery?"




Dedicated to Malcolm Little (X) (May 19, 1925- Feb. 21, 1965),
RIP mista... you remain ma hero

To ma girl of all time, Araminta.

I wonder how you did it
a nubian goddess like you
though i bet you didnt know it back then
yet i must ask you;
Araminta, how did you do it?
Crawlin in the thicks of the nights
with men, children and wives alike
knowing it just might be your last
yet risking it
for the sake
of us

I thank you for your courage
and appreciate the love you spread

RIP ma ma heroin
To ma girl of all time;
Araminta AKA Harriet Tubman
June 14 1820- March 10 1913