Today I shook hands with Genocide.
He just moved next door to me, and my mother made me say hello, out of courtesy.
His hands grasped mine like the sky holding on to a hurricane.
Ruff dry skin, filled with scars and invisible stains of blood touches my palms.
His fingers rap around my trembling thumb.
I hate him, even though we just met; my stomach boils like hot grits in a steel pot.
He smiles at me, teeth jagged like a coat's zipper.
He has machine guns for arms and grenades for hands,
Cannons for legs, and a gas mask for a head.
He lives right next door to me.
I walk to school with his sons.
They play games that give birth to death.
Games like "whites lynch them negros" and "Chinqs shoot the Japs",
Or "Spics stab the Beaners" and "Germans kill the Kikes".
These boys, that wear double Z's each turned 45 degrees, patched onto their arms,
They wore white bed sheets to school on Halloween.
They got white cotton and brown ropes.
They make tree houses with niggers as wind chimes,
That keep me awake at night, singing freedom songs.
His wife baked my family a cake yesterday,
Devil's food...
She asks my mother questions like how do you get your nigger naps so straight.
My father told her he was a painter.
She asked him to paint her a basket of mangosteens an guavas, strange fruit.
Tonight the Genocides invited us to dinner.
A feast of human flesh, ripped from bones, and bodies,
That once looked like ours,
But now show bones, that look white, like their oppressors.
They don't even like us,
But tonight we have a feast together.
Tonight I will lock eyes with the Genocides
And tonight I will converse with a Genocide.
So look, and listen closely, like a fly on a white wall.
Look and listen closely.
This is what Genocide feels like.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Grace
Her name is Grace; she used to be my best friend,
And every scar defines her.
The first scar she had ever gotten
Was from falling from a bike after her father let go.
And sent her, flying into the concrete and tumbling onto cracked pavement.
Glass pierced her skin like needles through a torn pair of jeans.
Blood trickled down the pavement forming a crimson river
As she laid at its mouth, like sediments in a rocky stream.
More devastating accidents were to follow
But the scars they left weren't nearly as deep as the one that tattooed her innocence, and left her heart with marks of disillusion,
These marks made by a father with no intentions of loving her
A father with every thought of lusting her.
His fist sent fierce blows to soft lips like bullets leaving automatic chambers of insecurity,
Followed by incestuous kisses and heartless moans.
Her vagina became the mold for his treachery
Leaving behind traces of disgrace,
These feelings that she will carry with her, into her grave.
These lips, that now speak words of physical desires to hide emotional despair,
wear fire-truck red and leave foot prints on body parts we only see behind closed doors,
Prostituting God's gifts in exchange for a lost love that she can only find in him.
Her body becomes poetry.
Lines as deep as valleys inscribed into weak arms and abused thighs, to make up for strong hatred and bruised ties.
She writes stories of a mother who puts her children on auction blocks in exchange for a fix.
She tries to form happy endings but these stories don't end happily.
These stories, she can never fix
So she rots, like flesh on a dead maids bones
After working on her hands and knees for all her life,
Heart heavy like a bruised fist hitting a hallow wall,
With a broken soul she has to endure.
An empty violin case, she is
Walking around an apartment that has potential to make music that the whole world can relate to
But who will she relate to?
No one
Because the world can never swallow the tragedy of a rose being raped by a weed, or gold being traded for seeds.
She she lives, in a broken shell, waiting for the world to put her back together again.
Her name is Grace; she used to be my best friend,
And every scar defines her.
And every scar defines her.
The first scar she had ever gotten
Was from falling from a bike after her father let go.
And sent her, flying into the concrete and tumbling onto cracked pavement.
Glass pierced her skin like needles through a torn pair of jeans.
Blood trickled down the pavement forming a crimson river
As she laid at its mouth, like sediments in a rocky stream.
More devastating accidents were to follow
But the scars they left weren't nearly as deep as the one that tattooed her innocence, and left her heart with marks of disillusion,
These marks made by a father with no intentions of loving her
A father with every thought of lusting her.
His fist sent fierce blows to soft lips like bullets leaving automatic chambers of insecurity,
Followed by incestuous kisses and heartless moans.
Her vagina became the mold for his treachery
Leaving behind traces of disgrace,
These feelings that she will carry with her, into her grave.
These lips, that now speak words of physical desires to hide emotional despair,
wear fire-truck red and leave foot prints on body parts we only see behind closed doors,
Prostituting God's gifts in exchange for a lost love that she can only find in him.
Her body becomes poetry.
Lines as deep as valleys inscribed into weak arms and abused thighs, to make up for strong hatred and bruised ties.
She writes stories of a mother who puts her children on auction blocks in exchange for a fix.
She tries to form happy endings but these stories don't end happily.
These stories, she can never fix
So she rots, like flesh on a dead maids bones
After working on her hands and knees for all her life,
Heart heavy like a bruised fist hitting a hallow wall,
With a broken soul she has to endure.
An empty violin case, she is
Walking around an apartment that has potential to make music that the whole world can relate to
But who will she relate to?
No one
Because the world can never swallow the tragedy of a rose being raped by a weed, or gold being traded for seeds.
She she lives, in a broken shell, waiting for the world to put her back together again.
Her name is Grace; she used to be my best friend,
And every scar defines her.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Quick Update
Hey my fellow followers. I know that I haven't been active for a while but alot of work is going into my music as well as my poetry. More to come soon. Keep a look out for new songs through the facebook and facebook fan page. Peace. Stay True by Any Means.
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