(no subject)
rescue
this poem is not about revolution
or malcolm or tupac or h rap brown or revenge
it is not about racism or cuba
not even about assata
but about a mother who rides the blue line at 6
gets off at the imperial station and is a nurse who loves her son
even still
and held him in a light only she and God could seem to see
he was 16 and licorice black with a handsome smile and perfect teeth
just like his daddy
he was shot and killed by another man and womans boy
and this heavy on her neck
somehow not being enough
today she goes about her days remembering
that on the eve of her only childs services
while his body wait alone and cold beyond a comforters cure
his murderer, captured only by karma maybe
emptied his body
spray painted his casket in red letters old english font
now tattooed on the chest of her memory
swollen and flexed until her forever ends
and why
this poem is about the courage it takes to somehow remember
that he always kissed her goodnight
ate greens with ketchup
loved fish with his grits
this poem is not about rodney king or darryel gates
or natasha harlins stacey koon
not even about soon ja du
this poem has nothing to do with watts 1965
not really but kinda
you see this is about a young girl in montebello
who was beautiful and four
and dreamt of the curls that would fall down her back at her quincinetta
and sat in her room and counted
dos, tres, quatro, cinco
under all of her pillows
while her father repeated stabbed her mother
and she somehow tearlessly patted her hand and rocked
jamas te pueden hacer dano dios te va hacer bonita
no one will hurt you God will make you beautiful
you see there are many stories
and if by chance they should all be told one day
there will be many more even after that
this isnt about la revolucion mexicanna
i already told you that
only the revolution that occurs in the souls of us
who still love the memories of those of whom we cannot see
those creations of both genders
every religion every creed
we see these heroes on the bus, at the light, in the next cubicle
honoring the memory of those faces that may never flash across the evening news
and those faces that do
i pray that when i have passed away
that i will have lived such a life to have created grand memories enough
to sustain my loved ones well
i pray that in the break of morning clear that they will breathe
without having to be reminded
knowing that there is an inevitable death
that comes with living
though religions and philosophies do
best they can at explanation
they will not ever have power
enough to prevent
having lived life time over and again
i have found laughter
to be truest friend
for therein lies
at evils demise
God within us all
this poem
if indeed it is a poem at all
is about dancing on hurt feet
jaha zainabu
this poem is not about revolution
or malcolm or tupac or h rap brown or revenge
it is not about racism or cuba
not even about assata
but about a mother who rides the blue line at 6
gets off at the imperial station and is a nurse who loves her son
even still
and held him in a light only she and God could seem to see
he was 16 and licorice black with a handsome smile and perfect teeth
just like his daddy
he was shot and killed by another man and womans boy
and this heavy on her neck
somehow not being enough
today she goes about her days remembering
that on the eve of her only childs services
while his body wait alone and cold beyond a comforters cure
his murderer, captured only by karma maybe
emptied his body
spray painted his casket in red letters old english font
now tattooed on the chest of her memory
swollen and flexed until her forever ends
and why
this poem is about the courage it takes to somehow remember
that he always kissed her goodnight
ate greens with ketchup
loved fish with his grits
this poem is not about rodney king or darryel gates
or natasha harlins stacey koon
not even about soon ja du
this poem has nothing to do with watts 1965
not really but kinda
you see this is about a young girl in montebello
who was beautiful and four
and dreamt of the curls that would fall down her back at her quincinetta
and sat in her room and counted
dos, tres, quatro, cinco
under all of her pillows
while her father repeated stabbed her mother
and she somehow tearlessly patted her hand and rocked
jamas te pueden hacer dano dios te va hacer bonita
no one will hurt you God will make you beautiful
you see there are many stories
and if by chance they should all be told one day
there will be many more even after that
this isnt about la revolucion mexicanna
i already told you that
only the revolution that occurs in the souls of us
who still love the memories of those of whom we cannot see
those creations of both genders
every religion every creed
we see these heroes on the bus, at the light, in the next cubicle
honoring the memory of those faces that may never flash across the evening news
and those faces that do
i pray that when i have passed away
that i will have lived such a life to have created grand memories enough
to sustain my loved ones well
i pray that in the break of morning clear that they will breathe
without having to be reminded
knowing that there is an inevitable death
that comes with living
though religions and philosophies do
best they can at explanation
they will not ever have power
enough to prevent
having lived life time over and again
i have found laughter
to be truest friend
for therein lies
at evils demise
God within us all
this poem
if indeed it is a poem at all
is about dancing on hurt feet
jaha zainabu