Daughter
if i were born in the 70s, i would have been
a revolutionary baby, high fists shouting for black power,
sportin’ cat eye glasses in pick-me afros, never to add-in a perm
i feel the airstreams stale creased in my eyelids,
sublimed messages, america trying to tame my mind,
i am at the border checking lice in dreams
i am ready to enter the grace-lands of america,
the cadence adventure echoing in ruined mucks
past brownstones, corner shops hanging carcasses
stenches of drained meat, paralyzing my nostrils
upward in mobility of small mom-and-pop stores,
still existing to suck what’s left out corporate america
all over the Hill
i am led by light-stashed-smog up against the city
words-fall-asleep-in-the wind-tapped, in angry pits
then, as if, my name, unhindered-nonexistent
i am stuck force feed in an open world pushed
through reality, reformed in between rushing cars
i pause--
on PAT buses we Pittsburghers rush to find a seat, relax
shoulders tense away from sun-warmth lingering
“We don’t even know who are our leaders are any more”
two older women marinated in Ben-Gay speak loosely
time warps,
in between the rally sessions at the Urban League pulling
together secret meetings on how to vote, if you’re black
we are collected by our city from lax people slow to
see the city change; i am coated with equal signs,
puzzled in fragments, torn wishing to be invisible
amidst bare junctions, empty handed, here passing
flyers-for what I believe in, came out of mounds,
where the clock ticks away my possibilities
rushed in debris of empty tomorrows, while
i am standing on floors where sit-ins happen,
and the Honorable Martin Luther King gave his speech,
i realize my cry is only a soft murmur calling for a
change-i can’t always hold the rain, suck dry fate,
restore, let my fingertips be like magic wands
i quench my thirst in iambic bows contorted,
rooted in the dusty core, be re-titled,
the daughter of America,
i am fuming in resentment,
locked in bottoms of shackles,
left by father not knowing ME,
trying to find out who i am,
the dream-seeker, soul searcher
trudging
trading places, where the peace has a long-standing
mockery, blemished in sunken shoving crowds,
drugged out mothers hiding crack in-between their titties,
chalk lines cradling corpses never to wash out the sidewalks
i live in a redefined America
where there is a suspect on every corner
where children play in stolen shopping buggies
consuming ramen noodles every day of the week
calling women bitches,
throwing rocks at buses,
to savvy their way into another statistic
another ghetto-gangsta budding from the concrete
we hide in fear of being associated,
we don’t talk to cops in doorways,
we stand puffing on cigarettes
looking for action in-between blinds
we are immune to the shots,
and the politicians knocking
wanting our vote to win the election.
* * *
The Colors of My Love
I have been a believer of Nubian gods
Promising me that they will
Give me the world with a twist
Of a finger-my soul weighs a
thousand pounds of madness--
Walking-believing that they could
Give me what I lost in between the war
Balance the sun when the atmosphere
Isn’t paying attention
I have nodded my head after
My lips were taped shut, in the guff
of my throat, I choked on believing
in their secrets still extending my hand
at their welcoming table, yielding to their
demand I became bra-less
My whipping wasn’t by lynchers
But on top of bedspreads
Holding head boards, later asking
them to love my spirit
they bleed refuge through sutures
the empty feelings where the
colors on my palette became diluted
with one touch of a brush
I pushed back my tattered remains
Trying to erase time-exhausted,
Later it came back with a vengeance, it bathed
In a orchestra of democratic voices,
it pulled me up by the sleeves, telling me to wake up,
while shaking sleeping babies and holding them to death,
It blew its way right to my face, and fought for
Me to comprehend-used
But, I not bitter…
The colors of my love have mended songs
that flow through out my flesh
It has categorized father-as being my
First failed relationship, it has given me dittos
of late night phone calls I begged for someone to love me
my middle showed gravity empty from the rejects
of never receiving a gift, they wanted my kiss
but never wanted my soul.
* * *