Beat You Like You Were Fred Waterford

There are times when the anger
is so deep I find myself reeling
in the emotions to keep from
jumping down the throats of
the people intent on believing this
nation isn’t racist anymore.

What world are you living in exactly?
Our bubbles can be safe places
but when one starts implying
trouble happens elsewhere and
everything is “fake news,” I call
in to question their ability to
be an actual human being.

It must feel good up there on
the pedestal of privilege.
It must feel real good.
You don’t have one care
in this world–no concern of
being attacked or harassed or
beaten like you were Fred Waterford
and hung on a wall for neighbors
to find while they’re mowing
their lawns.

Tell me, how can you call
a lynching on an oak tree suicide?
How?
This nation is designed to
mock and murder its minorities
and make sure the role of
“subordinate” stays that way.
“Here’s a small dish of manavelins
to hold you over until the next
batch of bullshit is released in
our favor. Stay tuned.”

America is built on the backs
of its oppressed and yet, America
acts like this fact is fiction.
“Sweep it under the rug.”
“Move that elephant out of the room.”
“Take history away from history.
This isn’t true!”
All the golden boys want their
golden girls to live in
an hour of disbelief.
This suits their blueprint.

But we are here to disrupt it
and shine light on what should
have been the focus centuries ago.
This nation is weeping; she cries
for her lost children; taken by the
hands of the blasphemers and
the pseudo-righteous.
She cries for her spirit is torn.
She cries because her soul is weak.

“Yea, though I walk through the
valley of the shadow of death,
I shall fear no evil.”

I shall fear no evil.
But evil better damn sure
fear me.

The Fantasy of You Still Haunts Me

I slept seven hours and one half
from Friday night into Saturday morning
and would’ve slept even longer
had I not awakened to the
feeling of you lying next to me

I thought I’d outgrown fantasies
of you exchanging your current life
for one I can provide–
that I’d been rid of seeing you
when I don’t need to

“The world doesn’t need another
love poem”
but I’m beginning to not give
a fuck about the world
It’s much too busy breaking
character or running wild because
being unmasked is a form of freedom
and I am far too consumed with
keeping my tongue tied and
staying away from props that
send me into the past

How are the children
is the first question I would ask you
I miss them more than anything
I realized the other day that
three different birthdays over
two separate years have passed
and I haven’t been able to
catch their smiles

I hope you tell them good things
about me, that I had a purpose
in drifting away
That I was trying to save my heart
If you’re wondering . . .
It isn’t working
I saw a woman on North
Peace Haven the other day . . .
jogging
I glanced only but I’d know
your doppelgänger when I see her
and she was it

I damn near crashed my car
I spent thirty minutes trying to
talk you out of my head
Two hours later, you were gone
Until today . . . Until this morning
and I wonder if it’s because
I’m going to do something today
we spent time doing in Baltimore
that digs every memory of you
up and sticks them to my
soul

I am tired of wondering where
I stand in your world
even after I found the strength
to leave, your magnetic pull
senses me
I just want to wake up
in the morning
Shit, shave, and shower,
and show you the door

The problem is, though, I
keep opening it and you . . .
well, you always walk
right in and take over
my heart

watching the fallen (revised)

nine-year-old girls aren’t
supposed to walk
in on their mother
losing her mind

they aren’t raised to
bear witness to the fallen
but she watched

and she knew her
mother would never
be the same

this became her gift
learning what to avoid

an adult before
her time

yet still engaged
to a world that
overlooks her and
neglects her efforts

she’s grown but not
mature enough to
understand the ways
of this world

“You can love someone
for years and never
truly know them.”

she thinks this to
herself often
is she giving too much
is she taking too much

who will accept
all of her knowing
she’s been through
hell and back

knowing she’s watched
the fallen and
has tried her
best not to fall too

Feeling the Feelings

A Lamentation

Have we always been so
bad at being human or
did we arrive at this point
over time? 
Is inhumanity ingrained
in our souls and passed
down to generations after us?

We’re flailing about in time
knocking down common sense
and running over logic.
I’ve had my share of selfish
people and my stomach is full
of disdain for my brethren
who’d rather skip rules
and toe a harsher line.

One day, the spirit of togetherness
will envelop us and mark us
with its care.
But first, we must crawl out
of our shells and move closer
toward acceptance of others.

On my dying day,
I want to be remembered
as a task manager who
managed to love everyone
but right now, I am nowhere
close to that.

I hope I still have time left.
I want to still have time left.
Please let me have more time.


Originally published via Medium.