“Returned Shots, my anchor is hip hop”
( — dedicated to Talib Kweli, who needs to listen when a teacher who loves him, speaks.)
you wanted a war.
a man that was loved — not harmed. who i held in my my arms on nights where tears would pour from eyes that
in his sleep, bout “vampires”. eating, and smiling like a starved child
run across the border and now in refuge. far away from what was harmful. staring into blank space like he could see ghosts rising in dappled sunlight playing on the wall.
the daze of a million demons left behind for just this moment in time.
happy and pregnant with love and hugs. the peaceful silence of two souls who know how to be,
where were you when this began, using hip hop with your master plan to get as much money as you can off of hoe moments, with
men who makes songs bout how they don’t fuck with ya’ll no more? the gangsta rappers who come from nothing while
the conscious ones make money at the stage of murdered black boys?
shot dead. for stealing cigarillos out the local bodega. blood pooling in the hot sunlight
No respect for his body either. Exposed and alone.
are we human?
what does black life mean to you?
do the kids know what you do when you are not putting on productions with your names tagged all over them?
as though it’s not kids who are the focus?
facebook pages where you talk about what your son does in his summers but dedicated to an entire
high school of
do they know outside of you, you leave them to the streets. the other streets where predators by happenstance, sick men,
get poetry created off of them for your hoe moment profits?
Nothing therapeutic, just to deal with the pain and terror of all this,
to sell books, of “revolution” about a god who is not an American as though you even know what
in your evil.
who leaves a man to suffer for 20 years, pretending that you care. when it’s all a
performance, a “social justice” group of tweets while
is occurring. those same children you claim to represent are the same children who will get sick.
see the connection? make a difference? Do you think they remember a high school play for black history enjoyment while you take credit for their work,
when they are
you did not even try to stop an epidemic. Too worried bout your hoe moment living and what black man you can abuse next.
Hopping like a rabbit right over them. They mean nothing to you but
“Look at me! See what I do!”
Does your king know that his father loves him while you visit the city he lives in and he suffers,
Seeing pictures of his son all over the internet.
Nothing he can do to stop the exploitation of his kid. Forced to perform so you can say,
“Look what I did”.
Everyone is up for grabs.
With a sociopath. No credentials to even teach beyond the rep you built fucking another woman’s husband. A man old enough to be your father. A known misogynist and abuser. While fucking his son, the mayor, and fucking his friend the rapper.
You are less than trash. A different face daily.
You — wear the mask. Terrified of me and how I love,
You wanted me dead. The police and FBI and Nation of Islam as your threats.
Third person messages while I write in first. A simple name, signed
I have never had to tell myself to care more.
About a simple man, running from demons. And you.
Who can no longer ride an abused kid’s back, your ultimate victim, for your hoe moment hip hop profits.