“Feeling the capacity to be,
to live,
to act,
to pour out the spirit of their souls into concrete and objective form with a high fervor born of their racial characteristics,
they glide through our complex civilization like wailing ghosts;
they spin like fiery planets lost from their orbits;
they wither and die like trees ripped from native soil.”
— excerpt from Book Three: Fate of Native Son by Richard Wright, 1940
King’s Chef at Halal Stand
Sugar cane
Officer Alfonzo and his batman obssession
Gov Cuomo and the Rev Al Sharpton
Utica Avenue
Utica Avenue: Transformers Addition
This poem tells a story of the 1906 Atlanta riots.
Her eyes were gentle, her voice was for soft singing
In the stiff-backed pew, or on the porch when evening
Comes slowly over Atlanta. But she remembered.
She said: “After they cleaned out the saloons and the dives
The drunks and the loafers, the thought that they had better
Clean out the rest of us. And it was awful.
They snatched men off of streetcars, beat up women.
Some of our men fought back and killed, too. Still
It wasn’t their habit. And then the orders came
For the milishy, and the mob went home,
And dressed up in their soldiers’ uniforms,
And rushed back shooting just as wild as ever.
Some leaders told us to keep faith in the law,
In the governor; some did not keep that faith,
Some never had it; he was white, too, and the time
Was near election, and the rebs were mad.
He wasn’t stopping hornets with his head bare.
The white folks at the big houses, some of them
Kept all their servants home under protection
But that was all the trouble they could stand.
And some were put out when their cooks and yard-boys
Were thrown from cars and beaten, and came late or not at all.
And the police they helped the mob, and the milishy
They helped the police. And it got worse and worse.
“They broke into groceries, drugstores, barbershops,
it made no difference whether white or black.
They beat a lame bootblack until he died,
They cut an old man open with jackknives
The newspapers named us black brutes and mad dogs.
So they used a gun butt on the president
Of our seminary where a lot of folks
Had set up praying prayers the whole night through.
And then, “she said, “our folks got sick and tired
Of being chased and beaten and shot down.
All of a sudden, one day, they all got sick and tired
The servants they put down their mops and pans
And brooms and hoes and rakes and coachman whips,
Bad niggers stopped their drinking Dago red,
Good Negroes figured they had prayed enough,
All came back home–they had been too long away–
A lot of visitors had been looking for them.
They sat on their front stoops and in their yards,
Not talking much, but ready; their welcome ready:
Their shotguns oiled and loaded on their knees.
“And then
There wasn’t any riot anymore.”
by Sterling Brown
another great entertainer
bojangles
jingled his way to the top
tapped nonstop
for him it was play
but he was made to work it
he tapped himself to the stage
jingling jangling
jangling baby jangling
until he couldn’t stop
because the penalty was
whuppings on his back
so he tapped himself
until his freedom ran raw from his pores
’til blood seeped from his soles
’til sweat poured from his soul
Sambo led the way for black entertainment
remember that
My little brother has the sweetest dimples
as if honey dipped happiness puddles on his brown chin
Legs made to run and he’s barely one
I hope he’s quick
burdened by forever fitting the description
I hope he’s fast
with those slave feet
fast enough to beat a speeding mal-intent militant bullet
cruising through your hood in cruisers
I can’t breathe
imagining him laid out
like a Law & Order: SVU scene
flashing on the TV screen
The grand jury content with no indictment
Look, I’m no Al Sharpton
but
Fred Hampton,
Rodney King, Emmett Till,
Amadou Diallo, Ousmane Zongo, Timothy Stansbury,
Sean Bell, Bernard Bailey, Jahzeph Crooks, Tamir Rice, Eric Garner,
Akai Gurley, Oscar Grant III, Ernest Duenez, Christopher Middleton, Trayvon Martin, Michael Brown,
my father, my cousin, my brother
They all deserve better
than a supped up militarized Jim Crow task force
The truth is
they shoot dissenters and threats down like dominoes
it takes too long to turn on the hose
get the dogs
and lynching ropes I guess
Cops kill boys that look like me
all natural haired and sun baked skin
suspect or not
no one wants to die here
Why does your split decision always shatter his life like porcelain
dolls tap dance on bloodied pavement
that all the world’s perfumes cannot sweeten
They unload clips
We turn on each other with weapons
and the violence
spins this world on it’s axis
What if I have a son…
What if I came home and my husband…
Remember back in the days, when niggaz had waves
Gazelle shades and corn braids
Pitchin’ pennies, honies had the high top jellies
Shootin’ Skelly, motherfuckers was all friendly
Loungin’ at the barbecues, drinkin’ brews
With the neighborhood crews, hangin’ on the avenues
Turn your pagers to nineteen ninety three
Niggaz is gettin’ smoked G, believe me
Talk slick, you get your neck slit quick
‘Cause real street niggaz ain’t havin’ that shit
Totin’ techs for rep, smokin’ blunts in the project
Hallways, shootin’ dice all day
Wait for niggaz to step up on some fightin’ shit
We get hype and shit and start liftin’ shit
So step away with your fist fight ways
Motherfucker, this ain’t back in the days
But you don’t hear me though
No more cocoa leave io, one two three
One two three, all of this to me is a mystery
I hear you motherfuckers talk about it
But I stay seein’ bodies with the motherfuckin’ chalk around it
And I’m down with the shit too
For the stupid motherfuckers wanna try to use Kung-Fu
Instead of a Mac-10 he tried scrappin’
Slugs in his back and that’s what the fuck happens
When you sleep on the street
Little motherfuckers with heat want
To leave a nigga six feet deep
And we comin’ to the wake
To make sure the cryin’ and commotion
Ain’t a motherfuckin’ fake
Back in the days, our parents used to take care of us
Look at ’em now, they even fuckin’ scared of us
Callin’ the city for help because they can’t maintain
Damn, shit done changed
If I wasn’t in the rap game
I’d probably have a key knee deep in the crack game
Because the streets is a short stop
Either you’re slingin’ crack rock or you got a wicked jump shot
Shit, it’s hard being young from the slums
Eatin’ five cent gums, not knowin’ where your meals comin’ from
And now the shit’s gettin’ crazier and major
Kids younger than me, they got the Sky grand Pagers
Goin’ outta town, blowin’ up
Six months later all the dead bodies showin’ up
It make me wanna grab the nine and the shottie
But I gotta go identify the body
Damn, what happened to the summertime cookouts?
Every time I turn around, a nigga gettin’ took out
Shit, my momma got cancer in her breast
Don’t ask me why I’m motherfuckin’ stressed, things done changed
–Notorious B.I.G
(Love twists
the young man. Having seen it
only once. He expected it
to be, as the orange flower
leather of the poet’s book.
He expected
less hurt, a lyric. And not
the slow effortless pain
as a new dripping sun pushes
up out of our river. )
And
having seen it, refuses
to inhale. “It was a
green mist, seemed
to lift and choke
the town.”
–Imamu Amiri Baraka
My uncle, who is not really related to me, says that I shouldn’t have black knees. That no man wants a woman with black knees. I am confused by this, as I sit on the stoop listening to him laugh in his throat with another uncle of mine whom I am sure is not related to me. They seem to agree. One is a drug dealer. Overdue for his next bid and real estate man and property investor and owner of his own construction company. The other is notorious for his drinking binges and odd sightings around the neighborhood with packages of baby wipes that aren’t brand name. I say, but I am a black girl and I already have black knees. They continue to chuckle at me.
I am lost.
But I have black knees don’t I, I am black. You are brown. Women with black knees have scars from rubbing their knees on the ground. No one will want you if they look like that. He points to the other non-uncle’s skin, dark as charcoal. I am not charcoal, but I am brown. When did I become brown? Besides there’s other kinds of scars I’m talking about that you’re too young to know about. I am nine. You shouldn’t anyways, he says, and then swigs whatever it is he’s drinking. I played football a lot with the boys on the block, that’s why my knees are darker, and they know it already. I’m not talking about boys, he says, I mean men. Men like them?
When you get older men don’t want to deal with that kind of baggage. You all scarred and scuffed up from other dudes or games or whatever, and now he has to deal with your blackness. Wear stockings from now on or something, just trust me. By this point in the conversation Daddy has descended the stairs, and upon seeing the confusion in my little face, asks what we were talking about. Non-uncle number one, the lighter one, tells him. Daddy curses him out and punches him into the street. I wonder deeply. Why can’t women be dark and wanted, why can’t men deal with her scars? Daddy comes back to tell me that my uncle is not really my uncle at all and that he’s a sexist, nasty fool that I should never take advice from. My Daddy is a correctional officer at Rikers Island prison, he was an all-star running back in high school and a college drop out, he has made many mistakes but loves my mom and he loves me.
He says that my legs are fine the way they are.
And if not, then find a man in life who likes scars, brownness, and the edges of blackness.
The Poetry Corner 
