Step To The Table

step to the table with a pen

release all the static within

view the universe clearly

in my thoughts sand, gravel slipping through my hands

cocoa butter memories swim around

this intellectual revolutionary

bury me with dark chocolate and a floatie

i can back stroke through the essence of life

anger and admiration raise the question

are you really that comfortable with ignorance?

ebonics has spread like the bubonic plague

devil obscured our language to make meaning vague

if you can’t comprehend what i said

let me reiterate

in communication lies peace  these words we preach

but the violence can’t cease if no one understands us

ninety percent of your speech is driven by thought

think of the truth

translate that into actions dominated by ninety percent of your heart

i believe in living

i believe in living.
i believe in the spectrum
of Beta days and Gamma people.
i believe in sunshine.
In windmills and waterfalls,
tricycles and rocking chairs;
And i believe that seeds grow into sprouts.
And sprouts grow into trees.
i believe in the magic of the hands.
And in the wisdom of the eyes.
i believe in rain and tears.
And in the blood of infinity.

i believe in life.
And i have seen the death parade
march through the torso of the earth,
sculpting mud bodies in its path
i have seen the destruction of the daylight
and seen bloodthirsty maggots
prayed to and saluted

i have seen the kind become the blind
and the blind become the bind
in one easy lesson.
i have walked on cut grass.
i have eaten crow and blunder bread
and breathed the stench of indifference

i have been locked by the lawless.
Handcuffed by the haters.
Gagged by the greedy.
And, if i know anything at all,
it’s that a wall is just a wall
and nothing more at all.
It can be broken down.

i believe in living
i believe in birth.
i believe in the sweat of love
and in the fire of truth.

And i believe that a lost ship,
steered by tired, seasick sailors,
can still be guided home to port.

–FBI’s Most Wanted, America’s Beloved and Feared Sister–Assata Shakur

Nigeria’s 223

She jumped

hurling her body onto the tumbling street

cartwheeling into a cacophony of broken limbs

She sprinted

driving the crests of her knees into her little chest

praying to not fall prey to self righteous Allah sadists

gathering freedom into her lungs

as she fled her captors

The captives

276 little girls kidnapped


Taken under the baking sun

from their classrooms for learning western ideals

for learning

Yanked out of beds weighed down with soft dreams

shoved onto the back of trucks in streams

like chattel cattle

Sell them.

Sell them?

hundreds of small human beings

all brown skin, frightened eyes, and quivered lips

Nigerian. Muslim. and Beautiful.

Like my sister and brother

like lavender blood moons

like a call to prayer at sundown

like wind kissed desert sand dunes

I hear you




Everyone goes against each other

honor thy father, love thy mother

raging wars are all the same

to the girl who sits alone

in the dark with no name

hearts filling up with hope and despair

making you so crazy you pull out your hair

looking for loved ones

finding they’re not there

forever gone and lost to you

feeling sad and blue

your pain is all the same

to the girl who lives alone

in the dark with no name

dying in the fields of war

is only another score

to a leader who relaxes

while the country rots to the core

revenge is all the same

to the girl who cries


in the dark

with no name





The real question is

Propaganda and lies

Mirror cross burning cries

On the executive Black House lawn

I sip surreptitious agenda in the morning breeze

Ponder the message it brings

Celebrate the death of those long dead



Congratulate the Head of State



State the nature of these endeavors

Distraction of the masses in the form of resurrection


Where are the photos of victims still scraping their lives off the side of the road

Vicious tornadoes

Egyptian foes refuse to let go

Japan’s nuclear blow

Forgotten Haitian and New Orleans homes

Chillean earthquakes in

Backlash of civil wars that riddle the sub-Sahara

The truth slips through the back door along with escaped slaves and hope

I’ll dine with all three

And anticipate

Tomorrow’s already written news report