rant

love,
embrace almost everything,

though we fight for something.
halfway loaded but rifle cleaned.



my people are next.
sign my cheques in politicians blood,
prepare my prison cell,
and while you're at it,
pave me a street in hell.



S. J. G. Avenue
from whence the next generation blooms
i'll decompose just enough for you to bury your sons in me

unlike the cannibal generals of Liberia,
i'll cloak myself in a smoke screen of convenient media



and on the night
when the city sits up late
writing its speech
to beseech the masses,

erasing the lines that mean anything
replacing them with gyration
gun hand
politician on a stage sayin
bloy bloy bloy



i'll host the meeting with the masses
in their gullies, digging their trenches
to worship with inadequate lighting
just enough to hide the fact
that we preparing for the fight


this is no walk in the park
and its definitely after dark in masked faces

what the system overlooks is our own
for the taking.


so the powers that be
dont want to let the powers they breed
take control
run the whole
from the middle

not a quarter hearing fiddle music
and the rest oppressed by kartel and movado's death chants
poverty and hot grabba,


this is not about poetry anymore
i have never been about the spoken word
soaring are wings made of purpose
a task to birth unity from confusion

daddy ture called it revolution
not me



we find the only lines
hang our clothes,
fill our banks
fill our hearts with rejection when the visa call never comes



i always walk past the huddled masses
into the managers office
i always see you sheepish
hailing me

stepping
jacket in possession
of a host of my favorite weapons


and you think you are free
till i the agent
of nightmares

lend a hand to moses cry
to let my people be



malcolm told them in a tv interview
that the price for freedom is death
but yet,

this is not put on in re-runs in between sesame street
and Dexter.



Dexter is not the only one of his kind
some now find a belonging
a place to call home
a community of coldness
called to warm the earth


others tuck their tails
and hide in lines
headed to tellers
who tell only what the managers manager says they should



and i could have waited on my dying day
to utter words that would get me locked away
but i wont.

today
i call the cops.
alert the spies
the agents

to look at me! look at me!
eureka! i am land.
i am the real estate. i am the oil, the diamond, the whore, the gold.



and i dare you to want me,
as you beg yourself not to rape me.

i call you in with a little finger
through a hole

in my zinc
your head shall enter

your body shall remain outside
and you shall be buried in my sufficiently decomposed flesh



and you will be the sons of the first few verses
the ones who write wills, before you spell your names

the clock stops ticking
the reaper and his horse

are by the river drinking.



there's no coming back
from the place of no return
and you learned that
long before you departed.