Poem 1.29.22: A poem about jail. or what ever happened after. And a bad intro to who I sought to protect.

Trayvon Martin Rally. Washington DC 2012.

I’m tired of waiting for others to be me first! Pioneer? Bitch how dare you shrink me, as I’ve struck you wit that opening “b” work! I’m a man of mountains and giants trying to act out the universes’ worst nightmare, cosplaying my ancestors’ greatest realities combined into a franken-gumbo-of-joy.

I’ve spent all these years listening to a voice borne from soiled walls. Echos of living proses, once rocketed off the walls, once’s spoke by man, women, and by child. I listened to curses, skip tracks and distorted beats, why?!? I’ve run, drank, and danced to the echos of my mistakes, why?!? So not to collapse in vain. And to prove, with evidence, I am. And so we’re they.

When it all tore, I was as stilts made of whiskey and softer minded thoughts; artifacts of a history born from industrial linkages made lineage-mint.

I stopped breathing, and they didn’t have to ask, they used lies to encourage self-loathing and mask intent. It’s the gas chamber of my mind, all the time responding to no one’s call, screaming “it’s lit!” That life-sentence wasn’t quite death, but I was dead. Lit wit no light.

So with the courage of a corpse on the weekend. I have my own Bernie to carry (RIP), my own cross to bare, my own “pioneers” to ti give ground too. I’ll cover my eyes and wander a world that never knew me live. I’ll cover my eyes, only long enough to remember to breathe. Long enough to be in my body, a body I’ve named. Long enough that I can move with faith.

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