an African proverb states,
“they don’t know,
that they don’t know,
that they don’t know.”
and that’s why I ain’t mad atcha
that’s why I don’t hate you,
it’s why I don’t hate myself
That’s why I don’t blame you
it’s why I don’t blame myself
because blind ignorance was both our pilots
flying us to a land of unknowns
where the conditions of survival
were preordained and beyond our control
and so we conformed-
a survival instinct, as to feel like we were in the know
as a result, believing that we know
that there is nothing which we do not know
and that there are no more,
or far less,
unknowns
but if you wish to come from out of
your blanket of blind ignorance
and know
then the first steps of wisdom
is admitting what you don’t know
and that, you do not know
because once you know
you can not un-know
and therefore you can no longer,
be kept warm under the blanket-
of blind ignorance
you may feel colder
the more you grow
but then you will create for yourself
fashioning your own warmth
and blanket of truth
that was there for you,
me,
and us all
since the very beginning
Ashe(let it be so)
Names Hold Weight
as a man of African descent
I am no Uncle Tom
never have been
but I feel like my mind,
and experience within this structure
has made me America’s
in the colonial age of Britain,
Tim was a boy
innocent like all children
but this boy was special
special in the attention he would come to receive
the job he would be expected to perform
and the death he would succumb to once he had outlived that purpose
A Tim was defined as
a British child/infant, raised/groomed/bred to be molested
and then they killed him
Tim was the act of savagery and a propensity to dominate
satiating the barbaric thirsts and appetites of men his senior
bent, broken, and contorted to their will and pleasure
Tim was an inside joke
even a nickname
for those who were subjugated-
subjected to the prone position of being dominated
the nickname of those expected to,
bend over, and take it- as a matter and manner of fact
because money made them mighty
and might made them right
therefore for the right price
anything, and I mean anything
could become, “right”
if I question my identity
my history
and my role in America
I’m met with exasperation of appall
as if it is absurd to some, or many, still
to become anything more
than America’s Tim
the truth sometimes hurts so bad
humor is created as a means of defiance
and coping
my cell mate’s mother was a prostitute
this was her joke in naming her son Timothy
she understood the short of it would be,
Tim
because it is how she felt
and she knew men and America, with a dark intimacy
she knew what that name may conjure in the subconscious-
of some good ol’ men
the day her son would sign up for school or a job
maybe even with sadistic laughs
since civility is a force of etiquette and politeness
appearing to be more than what is hidden beneath
as if whom they allow to surface is all anyone ever is,
his grandmother told him one day
wait til you find out what your name means
ask your mother
questions of his parents color, and if he was adopted
always asked as he grew up
so when she laughed, and divulged that poignant truth
he hated her for it
and made sure to become anything but that!
but a Tim-
someone expected to accept anything as truth
just bending over to take the lies
in what ever form the are delivered
what he didn’t think of was
the pain of his mother to name her child that
as a trauma invoked act of defiance
fed by the shame of her being and livelihood
probably forced upon her as well
and somewhere deep inside maybe hoping too,
that her son would be, anything
but a Tim
a hidden love
a love given by reversal
What Do You Prefer to be Called?
call me what you really want to call me
that way we can understand each other when we talk
Rainy Wait
in the rain we wait
not for the seasons coming growth
but for commissary, prison store
to reap what we sow
and there are but three windows
not to peep, peak, or peer
but to serve with haste the demand
as the rain grows the line into jeers
as the time draws near
and the door finally pops open
we are stopped, hearing the pride-stunting yells of “one at a time!”
wet and damped hours we camped, all just to be chosen
“that ain’t right!” “they wrong for this!”
yea, we all know it
but such is power to the powerless
and hope to the hopeless
Watching the Sun
feeling like a child of your light
as you watch me
watching you closely, then following your glow
able to now see the world in its true light
amongst the ominous distractions,
I’ve never lost sight of you
I know what you will do
you will rise
you will shine
you will be
despite any hindrances that may block what I see
you will alarm me to my waking hours
back dropping my hours of peak performance
even setting at my most idle moments
you will even fall from glory’s attention,
falling to alert me to the time to rest and recuperate
as the days come, you will light my path
but one thing you have not been able to show me
is where my Sons are at
because there limits to wonders
some you will know
some you may never
because you can’t highlight everything,
when some things are just kept in the dark
and so that is where I am kept-
despite your luminous magnificence-
in the dark
unable to be like you,
and watch my Sons
the many shining moments and stories forever missed
no light, no matter how herculean,
can ever bring that shine back to me
Bodies aren’t Just Commodities
there have been 1532 souls executed in our country
for every 9 killed, there is 1 exonerated
people of African descent make up 13% of the U.S. population
people of African descent make up 42% of death row inmates
ehh mmm!
BODIES
ARE JUST COMMODITIES!
paying, to right a wrong
isn’t the only way, to right a wrong
yet money deciphers what’s right or wrong
and a check, is how you write, a wrong
because
bodies..
are just commodities!
justice imparting commissioned life and death decisions
where death becomes the sentence
resulting in various lives ended
and just a payout if the conviction gets upended
because
bodies..
are just commodities!
how can the death penalty become redemption
to a condemned soul’s prayers for repentance
a ‘life for a life’ being the only penance
for a civilized society’s view of justice to the families of victims
because
bodies..
are just commodities!
how can we behold the power of God to largely impoverished defendants
all of which grow up with no equal opportunities given
being stuck to the boot print of their country’s rhetoric and visions
as their flesh has been divvied up to two sides of political divisions
because
bodies..
are just commodities!
how can you deem me as a menace
yet plea bargain my finish
appearing to outlaw any outside lynchings
as if we’ve learned from our past, times supposedly being better and different
while it was clearly just a generational pivot
hearing the many argue that the definition of a ‘noose’ has shifted
and the way you quell the structured hate and racial tensions
is by bordering them within razor-wired fences
holding viewings of their hanging on the inside of a building
strapped to a chair or gurney, trembling
electrocuted or ironically, ‘drugged’ to death, resembling
a corrupted symbol of forgiveness
because
a chance has been taken, that was never given
clearly, they never had any chance from the beginning
and that, is Not ‘Just’, that Is Inequality
because
bodies!
aren’t!
‘Just’!
commodities!