Forgive me, this is really not poetry
It is certainly not Black, African
Ebony or obsidian, high yellow or
Even red-boned
Negro would be far-etched and Colored
Is a stretch
Forgive me, this is really not poetry
It is inadequate, an illusion more doctrinal
Than optical, a poser posted in a post-
Black power movement that moves away from
Past movements by not moving at all
Cleverness, forgive me, this is really not poetry
Brooks, Baraka, Cullen, Giovanni, now
That is poetry, soldiers who have seen rabid
Police dogs and fire hoses wet faces wet with tears
And spit, crowds of Blackness encircle the revolution
And clutch Its back until blood dripped
Forgive me, this is really not poetry
I have only witnessed spinning rims parked in
Front of projects, reflecting the whirlwind of
Anger and despair of lovely, braided Black
Spinsters spinning tales over sugary cereals and
Juice boxes to kids with runny noses and no
Recollection of bus boycotts or busing Black
Faces across town in buses painted Caution
Forgive me, this is really not poetry
These words are not stewed with the memory
Of Till or Evers or Rap Brown imprisoned
Or Ellison’s transparent brother, nothing still
Rises or even wakes in the morning with the
Sun anymore because good jobs are married to
Good education and bad jobs have eloped with
The Mexicans
Forgive me, this is really not poetry
Never caught an episode of Malcolm or Martin
Colored, in black and white, others awed at
Awesomeness and presidents even sat quietly
And listened in the background, but all I have
Is athletes selling me stuff I need to be creamy and
Unthreatening and placid as lakes with no parental
Tributaries, fed by God’s rain
Forgive me, this is really not poetry
It is certainly not Black, African
Ebony or obsidian, high yellow or
Even red-boned
Negro would be far-etched and Colored
Is a stretch
Forgive me, this is really not poetry
It is inadequate, an illusion more doctrinal
Than optical, a poser posted in a post-
Black power movement that moves away from
Past movements by not moving at all
Cleverness, forgive me, this is really not poetry
Brooks, Baraka, Cullen, Giovanni, now
That is poetry, soldiers who have seen rabid
Police dogs and fire hoses wet faces wet with tears
And spit, crowds of Blackness encircle the revolution
And clutch Its back until blood dripped
Forgive me, this is really not poetry
I have only witnessed spinning rims parked in
Front of projects, reflecting the whirlwind of
Anger and despair of lovely, braided Black
Spinsters spinning tales over sugary cereals and
Juice boxes to kids with runny noses and no
Recollection of bus boycotts or busing Black
Faces across town in buses painted Caution
Forgive me, this is really not poetry
These words are not stewed with the memory
Of Till or Evers or Rap Brown imprisoned
Or Ellison’s transparent brother, nothing still
Rises or even wakes in the morning with the
Sun anymore because good jobs are married to
Good education and bad jobs have eloped with
The Mexicans
Forgive me, this is really not poetry
Never caught an episode of Malcolm or Martin
Colored, in black and white, others awed at
Awesomeness and presidents even sat quietly
And listened in the background, but all I have
Is athletes selling me stuff I need to be creamy and
Unthreatening and placid as lakes with no parental
Tributaries, fed by God’s rain
Forgive me, this is really not poetry
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