(no subject)
Silly Notions During a Cigarette Break
Waiting for the Bus
A black man joins me
underneath the awning of my favorite smoke shop.
We're hiding, from the rain, close to the tobacco-stained
brick walls, the holes of them looking bullet-torn
and he says to me, "What's good with it?"
and I say to him, "It's going well."
and he says to me, "You got a light?"
from my pocket I fish out a silver Zippo lighter
it's my favorite. It has a small German flag on the side
the yellow, black and red clashing with the inevitable
luminescence of the silver in the rain
The black man looks at me. He takes the lighter
I stare at him through my blue eyes
and my blonde hair which falls over them.
He flicks the lighter, letting the light illuminate
and incinerate
his New Port menthol
He's wearing a Ludacris t-shirt; silly notions run through my mind
I want to ask him if he's ever heard of Gil Scott Heron
and the revolution.
I want to know if he's ever read Langston Hughes, or Eldridge Cleaver.
I wonder if he remembers, or has been told, of the days when a black man
would write poetry, and the white man would be shocked.
I wonder how his parents felt about whitey on the moon
and where he thought those tax dollars should've gone
an astronaut's training could have been a complete re-doing of inter-city schools
a rocket engine could've been a social program
a helmet and visor could've been textbooks
Are these questions even relevant;
necessary, anymore?
Am I the only one in America
a silly college white boy with blue eyes and blonde hair
wondering where the old outrage
and social activism
of black culture has gone
now that Obama's taken the white house
and on the radio we hear boom, boom, shake, shake?
It used to be about revolutions
which would not involve a woman bending over
so you could see her hips swing
It used to be about revolutions
over class equality, race equality, gender equality
back in the days before shorties could become melodies in a man's head
instead, I say nothing
I remain silent with my pall malls
touching my silver zippo
wondering how many others are silently raging
longing for and reminiscing about
a time when we will, and were, all as active, engaged and self-aware
as we can possibly be.
The black man and I
wait in silence for the bus to take us home
away from the bullet torn walls
and the rain
and when it finally arrives
the bus rolls slowly,
the cracking and popping of its engines rumbling
over the rain.
Waiting for the Bus
A black man joins me
underneath the awning of my favorite smoke shop.
We're hiding, from the rain, close to the tobacco-stained
brick walls, the holes of them looking bullet-torn
and he says to me, "What's good with it?"
and I say to him, "It's going well."
and he says to me, "You got a light?"
from my pocket I fish out a silver Zippo lighter
it's my favorite. It has a small German flag on the side
the yellow, black and red clashing with the inevitable
luminescence of the silver in the rain
The black man looks at me. He takes the lighter
I stare at him through my blue eyes
and my blonde hair which falls over them.
He flicks the lighter, letting the light illuminate
and incinerate
his New Port menthol
He's wearing a Ludacris t-shirt; silly notions run through my mind
I want to ask him if he's ever heard of Gil Scott Heron
and the revolution.
I want to know if he's ever read Langston Hughes, or Eldridge Cleaver.
I wonder if he remembers, or has been told, of the days when a black man
would write poetry, and the white man would be shocked.
I wonder how his parents felt about whitey on the moon
and where he thought those tax dollars should've gone
an astronaut's training could have been a complete re-doing of inter-city schools
a rocket engine could've been a social program
a helmet and visor could've been textbooks
Are these questions even relevant;
necessary, anymore?
Am I the only one in America
a silly college white boy with blue eyes and blonde hair
wondering where the old outrage
and social activism
of black culture has gone
now that Obama's taken the white house
and on the radio we hear boom, boom, shake, shake?
It used to be about revolutions
which would not involve a woman bending over
so you could see her hips swing
It used to be about revolutions
over class equality, race equality, gender equality
back in the days before shorties could become melodies in a man's head
instead, I say nothing
I remain silent with my pall malls
touching my silver zippo
wondering how many others are silently raging
longing for and reminiscing about
a time when we will, and were, all as active, engaged and self-aware
as we can possibly be.
The black man and I
wait in silence for the bus to take us home
away from the bullet torn walls
and the rain
and when it finally arrives
the bus rolls slowly,
the cracking and popping of its engines rumbling
over the rain.