Sunday, June 12, 2005

I dream of micheal jackson

I heard the man scream -
the wordings shaping his mouth,
I stare trying to see his voice -
Vague attempt to seize something from the void
with words and words and words inaudible,
.....Yet hearing answers already shaped in my mind,
snatching the words out of Dreams,
beating upon my deafness
-----And suddenly the…
The silent ebbs.
I realize that the image in the portrait was gone,
the portrait was gone,
shadows were creeping around me,
till it fill every where with itself, I thought peace could come,

but a noise
intruded, alien and eerie drawing me within it fold,

I found myself,
in a grave yard familiar to me,
were many head stones had no names,
in front of me there was a nearly dug grave,

I tried to look away but I
could not, I was being drawn to look at it
as if my legs had a will of it own,

rushing me drawing me demanding my attention

......and lying within the grave was a man,
-face expressionless, mouth half
open, he was strongly built,
----there was an odd odor, not strong but
remained in my nostril the smell of the family grapes, grapes? ---

Suddenly a chunk from my past rushed at me, for a moment I was too
stunned, I thought my heart had forgotten to breathe, it was I but I
looked like Michael Jackson with bleached face;
a black man from outer space-
And at the head stone… The name jumped right at me like Tyson's right
fist in the middle of my tummy
Seems I could hear the stone the field shouting it,
I saw a shovel leaning on it edge, I picked it up, grabbed the handle
and swung it at the statute with such force that I moved with it and
saw myself the second time butt down first before I knew I was down,
but I stood up, the weed I was and continue to swing it again and
again, harder and harder as I could, I can feel the force of each
blow jarring through me, rattling my teeth, the shovel glinting out
sparks began to fly as the handle gave way, I continue till at least
as all human my energy ebbed way, leaving me deflated, for the
longest time I stood there all alone in the world, I had no
appointment , no one waiting for me or worried were I was, standing
there with fierce tears running down my face, I look at the grave
stone still intact the name still there as if polished anew, looking
at me in big bold letters `nigger" cut into the stone forall time a part of me the real heritage of slaves
( you can't change your color)


Scott said...


This glimpse into the pain of history and it's strongest echo into the present, is quite astounding.

You have officially expressed one of your deepest inner thoughts, and it IS a reflection of the outside world.

I work with men who find ways to curse the black man into everything they do.

One boss was asked if he had his truck worked on and billed it to the company. He responded by saying he would not 'nigger' his way into getting out of a debt.

He also has called blacks lazy.

How lazy is the man that counts the money, and how lazy are the men who work?

He has a warped sense of reality.

And to change him requires some warping as well.

Me, I just refused to work with him.

SO I lost some money in the short run, but I would rather work with people I respect and be happy, than make more money and be miserable.

Of course, words only mean what we let them mean. We could use 'nigga' to mean an affectionate term, or we could use it to describe apples.

What matters most is what is in our hearts and our lives.

We stand for what we can and we make a living being who we are.

We should not stop living just so we can make a living.


Anonymous said...

This poem is hot! I love the visual it gives. Keep writing brotha and come visit us sometime at