Trayvon Martin

America...land of the free

from prosecution for those

who wear the self-appointed title

of watchmen/given passes

to carry out execution at will,

with no retribution for those whose blood spills

in the streets where police target our sons,

our neighbors, our friends, our brothers

shot down with guns the state

supplies readily to white vigilantes.

Told my teenage nephew today,

"don't go outside holding candy

as it might be seen

as an open display of hostility

by those who might see your black skin

and youth as a sign of the enemy."

Warned him out of fear

not to raise his hoodie above his ears,

as the only hoods they want raised

are those above their own heads

and fleece above the neckline

is certainly a sure sign

of acting suspiciously

by those who patrol streets,

imagining scenes of confrontation,

as pulses begin to race quickly,

praying another night will be ending

with one more lifeless body to add to their list

of black lives ended too quickly.

Assured they will face no charges

as those who take the lives

of black men are quietly regarded

as heroes, as devastated

mothers who wait at

windows for their slain sons to come home

are encouraged not to weep

for joy comes in the

morn', while each day you wake

is a reminder that white men

can take the lives of children

who committed no crime,

aside from failing to realize

predators are on the prowl

and they are the prey.

So as families plead that

policing agencies will take

action, grieving as they

pray for justice,

killers are sentenced only to protection,

in a nation where freedom

is an abstract theory to those

who see fury over Kony

but no 8 million views will be seen

detailing the gunning down of a

of a Floridian teen.

Where is the uprising

for Trayvon Martin,

which celebrities will be marching

while the FBI says they are

only "monitoring the situation,"

which means little to those

who know that typically leads

to no prosecution, no media

sensation, as there is rarely

a hesitation to close the case

when it involves

"just one less black face on the streets."

So today, as my nephew walked

to a friend's home, I again felt

the fear of sending him out alone

into a world where young men

are regarded as inconsequential

rather than as favored children.

And I found myself standing in the

window for long moments after

he had gone and said a prayer

for his safe journey home and

another prayer for the mother

of Trayvon who no longer can

hope for her own son's return.

(I would pray that no matter what your ethnicity, that you would stand in solidarity against a policed state, wherein young men can be murdered while the police sit idly by hoping the incident will soon be forgotten. Please sign the change.org petition at http://www.change.org/petitions/prosecute-the-killer-of-17-year-old-trayvon-martin and remember to wear all black on Wednesday, March 21st in commemoration of Trayvon and the countless others who came before him. https://www.facebook.com/#!/events/266335826782994/ )

WWJD - Misguided Sheeple

False indoctrination spewed from pulpits on Sundays, forcing those who wrongfully believe to follow misguided instruction is the only way to attain salvation, taught that to be a good Christian you must have blind faith in the sermons that are based off of not what's in the Scripture, but what's been lectured for generations. So comprehension of the text written is of no importance and if you question that which is obviously mistaken, drones have been told that's just Satan trying to lead you from the truth.

Yet should you make mention of how the church picks and chooses certain scriptures to support their agendas, and how one abomination is thought to be infallible, while the others are only laughable, you're met with anger and disdain. And though hate is in direct opposition of the teachings of Christ, it's still far easier to buy into what the masses are selling, than to start telling others that you believe not what is told, but what is written.

But sheep fear that if they go against the flock that they risk being lost, so instead they'd rather be right in the eyes of the church than to do what Jesus taught so as to continue his work in the world. Dedicating their lives toward eradicating that which Christ never spoke against, but feed no hungry, house no homeless, clothe no poor, yet still think they're about their Father's business.

And I'm no Biblical scholar, rather a believer who tries in vain to get those who claim to be sanctified while quoting nonsensical rhetoric like "I don't hate the sinner, I hate the sin," to donate to any cause which doesn't make them look more holy to fellow parishioners. Yet if you ask that they put in work in the community, they're quick to say "I give my tithes on Sunday," and slam the door in your face. Not realizing the lesson to be learned from Sodom being destroyed wasn't because the city was gay but due to the sin of pride, careless ease and not caring for those in need.

Not to mention that the blood of those in need who see suicide as their only option, rather than being taught that Christ is accepting of all who call out to him drips from the palms of those who send out the wrong message about the glory of salvation, all because they find vindication for their hate, quoting verses about one specific abomination, while they forget the other sixty-six condemnations in the form of abominations were mentioned.

But I happened upon that lesson while I was studying what is written instead of ingesting religious ignorance from those who use the Word as a tool to spread hatred while they've neglected to pay heed to their own bracelets which read "What Would Jesus Do." Perhaps those same persons should refer to Luke 16:15 the next time they're searching out abominations: "And he said unto them, Ye are they which justify yourselves before men; but God knoweth your hearts: for that which is highly esteemed among men is abomination in the sight of God."

Then again, that would require reading, instead of just feeding off of what a man in a sharp suit and gators is doling out to flock of bleating sheeple.

POETIC THERAPY

Suffering does not always give off

airs of being painful.

The body has

tools for masking that which it

houses within.

Can carry

sorrow deep in belly

like womb swollen big

without benefit of children,

strong in back, though aching,

sore in feet, yet standing;

a cloak to belie the dust of

aches settled upon

ribs and hip bones.

Horrific truths exposed only

when ripped from deep interiors

like aborted fetus discarded

premature,

tossed aside remembrances

hurled into heaps like laundry,

well worn and dirty;

hidden between lines in palms,

between stanzas of poetry.

Heard uttered from trembling

lips into mics, whispered

to audience as though

they might have the ability

to cure those who spit rhymes

for the purpose of therapy,

searching out eyes in

darkness, coyly seeking

out a returned gaze which

offers back understanding

and the possibility of

one night of connection/

temporary release of the

frustration of silence,

so hands grip mic tight

imagining soon it will be fingers

upon eager thighs

absorbing the shock

of depth, of hurt explored,

between shots and groans

which stifle the moaning of

a temple in turmoil,

betraying the foul taste

of loss upon bitten tongue

held captive by the one

who only lets self come

undone on paper,

on screen, but never

gives self a reprieve

from the constant

grieving

it never is able

to escape from.

Sink down like sand,

fall in like ground,

cave further away

from the sound of

your voice, from the wrong

of your choices.

No followed through

promises of calls

once you've gone, just

moving on from city to state,

from the hate you'll leave

behind between the sheets

of a bed which held in it

a fugitive of truth, a survivor

of lies.

And the hallow eyes

of a woman who for one night

tried to soothe

that which

ailed you, but knew not that

deep within you was a pain

she could not reach

and though she was touched

by the words in your poetry,

you never once felt it.

SHIVERING

Threw my dreams onto the lawn tonight,

thought perhaps the rain that floods the

grass would wash away the presence of you,

but the watered down desires only grew

out of the ground you've yet to step foot upon.

With you, the rain has lost its power,

this electric sense of company

remains even while longitude and latitude

lies like stone between us,

leaving me to reside in residual darkness,

though yet I never feel alone,

as your shadow lingers in my home

to remind me of what could have been.

Like when you're desperate to eat so

you reach your hand in a hot oven

with no thought to protect yourself/

the burn still doesn't rid you of desire

to eat and I want so badly now to sleep,

but this heat doesn't distract me from

the hunger I have for your touch.

I would stage a hunger strike,

if the emaciation that would follow

would be enough for you to stop

running bases like you've gone afoul

of the desire you once had to kiss

only my lips.

Rain wets my head, these arms,

my hands

/my body are angered from the

lack of common sense my mind lacks

in not preventing you

from entering into my dreams/both

of which leave me shivering, cold

and lonesome for your arms to warm

me like hot stove, like stolen goods,

that that which I so want to consume

tonight.

RESURRECTION

She told me her extremities

had never been more than

extensions of the depths of her torso

which served only the purpose of

pleasing men.

I wanted to trap her arms

in the constraints of security,

to encase her frame so tightly

within my grasp that she felt

no need to reach her limbs

out like twisted tree, like

broken branches supporting

he who lacked the assiduity

to be successful without her

lifting him up.

Like corpse on display in state,

she laid before me, eyes closed,

breath stopped, said "If I could

choose the moment God ended

my days on Earth without taking

my life myself, I would die here,

lying peacefully beside you

just so that I could be

resurrected into a body

which knew not touch

before."

I could smell the scent of coconut

when she reached her fingertips

up to brush aside the hair in my

eyes, whispered

through her battered lips,

and shaking teeth,

"I only feel conscious these days

when you read poetry to me,

so please write a poetic eulogy

for the life I'll leave behind

and one day I'll sit

smiling from chair in front of mic,

listen to you recite and know

that these extremities had

no need to move tonight.

I just want to feel alive."

TEMPORALITY

Like the reflection of lights upon waves,
I feel refracted by movements of you/
bent, yet beautified within the rays
held within your vision.

Beneath the coolness of your shadow,
I am diffused within the depths
of your restraint in not touching
fingertip to water, as you bend
down upon knee to peer as though
parishioner upon alter.

How I pray for that touch
moving me ever towards
free falling destinations.

Yet I am lost as wind carries
vibrations, swells consuming
the loft as I am taken
out further, incapable of
preventing the rolled plunging,
orbital motions exposing
the circular tide that I wish
to depart from.

I am eroding under
damage of clapotis,
the constant of rise
and fall, the dip of angle
contorts me until I am
deconstructed,
left frustrated by the
temporality of your
pull upon my waves.

BORDEAUX

What strength we attach
to Bordeaux of wine,
personification via
comradely relief with
each sip, flavored
with the essence of resolve
we lack, sweetened upon lips
who whisper to both port
and God for mercy.

Sips of attack,
vengeance desired
for having submitted to
that which wine has no cure,
for tasting that which is
not of fruit nor notable
characteristic, but rather
just cool to taste
and quenched, if only
for the briefest time,
a guarded pallet.

What tainted manner
of consumption is this that
floods lips and tongue, yet
leaves both heart and throat
dry from lack of indulgence?

Does this vice for that which
is not spirit,
though ghost,
lust for the consumption
I can not refuse,
concerned not that I
lack no will to stop,
though sure that head
will hurt come dawn,
as heart did with dusk?

This is not taste
for what
I had then,
nor drink
of what
I thirst now for,
just stem
in hand
awaiting
a sip
just
one
time
more.