Dear Black Poet, Today You Are About to Die

1. black poets, we die too much. drown too much in our shit, in our vomit. in our glory, in our hoodies. bask in the after taste of the relics that are our history books. we store them in backrooms, in redlit basement rent party, fish bowl grease gripping the ribs, wiping the sweaty chicken fry from off our debts.
2. we are the Daniel in the lion’s mouth, roaring out our convictions until something shatters (or shakes). we shake our pelvis to rinkity show tune jazz club vibes, splitting the difference between — man and matter, machine and malice, math and murder. count the meteors blooming (tick), blossoming (tick), booming (tick) like 808’s. did you know your blood is color 42 magenta when they hang you? count the cells, it’s true.
3. black poets, we dine too much. porcelain plates put out for the good company. white man say we gotta move, WE say our feet here so we stayin’. look at the stones in them sayin’ , “we will carry you back Columbus, you do not want any part of this slave shit.” eating your diablo away, we are safety nets, sinners. cuff pant rolls, expose ankle, or they cuff ‘till the cuts come through the shirt.
4. drink too much. too drunk, too much, too much swine and blunts, too. much thinking and dying our afros brown, moons orange, move like the world is water, dying, in general, dropping hot sauce on dashikis. always dissecting pigs and pilgrims. packing heat, paging a pulse, looking for remedies, making homes out of holes, holes out of projects, projects out of people. making a mess, making a war, always making amends and mending broken fences; hot-wiring cars for time travel.
5. like, god speed: here is a magic bullet with a body cam on it.