SECTION THIRTEEN
POETRY PAGE TWO
 

sm
COLUMN EIGHTY, DECEMBER 1, 2002
(Copyright 2002 The Blacklisted Journalist)

[Rain Denise Wilson, an actress and slam poet may be reached at breakingchains@yahoo.com ]

WHAT YOU SCARED OF MAN

You gotta admit what you be
you be stone cold killas
you gotta admit what you be
you see my man
you be nothing more than a stone cold killa
the American kind
you be one of those cats that love waving the flag
and calling me UnAmerican if I don't
(You think I care if you call me American or not)
you be so happy thriving off these treacherous
American values
you be one of those fools that sing "My Country 'tis
of thee" real loud, you know what I mean
you be getting high on that joint called America
you be one like the President that don't even know the
words to the National anthem
and be on television lip-synching
making a bigger fool of himself,
than we already know he is -
hey I know the song man
and ain't none of that song got nothing to do with me/
you gotta admit what you be
you be so proud, so patriotic, so brilliantly painted
with the blood, white, and the blue -
so graciously fucked up killing every body that ain't
rich, blond, and blue
Don't tell me that ain't American man
Don't tell me that ain't you man
Don't keep calling me crazy man
You a stone cold killa
who? who? who?
you man you...
you
not hardworking
not overtiming it to feeds yo kids
not struggling to keep yo son from dying in the
hustle
not teaching yo kids to never reach in they pockets
around a white cop with a gun
not sitting across from that public aide worker
getting drilled for a 75.00 a week allowance
nah man, uh uh, not you
you be riding high in America
living that dream thing
being a king on easy street
sleeping in the big house
while you breaking my mommas back
you be real real good time American
You be a stone cold killa
that's what you be
Don't hate me cause I see
I'm still broke
still choking on street smoke
still falling fast
getting hollow points in my black ass
so the least you can do Massa
is let me speak!
You still got yo foot on me
let me write my little ass poem
leave me be
You still on top man
It's gonna take a little bit more for you to fall man
you and all yo buddies still getting away with being
counterfeit man
yo kids still gonna get they Ivy league education man
yo maid still gonna cook you the best meals man
and yo wife still gonna smile for every camera man
so what you scared of man
come on you can tell me
come on you can tell me
give it to me straight
what you scared of man
what you trying to hide
give me the truth man
give me the truth
so I can write my next poem...
You got the whole world man
you gonna let me write my next poem right?  ##

* * *

I SURRENDER

There ain't no rhythm like my blues
that wave of time -
that thin line between sanity and insanity -
jump off that bridge
turn on that ignition with that key
in that grey garage and wait.

Before anyone knows it
I've shot a hole through my whole life
with that bullet piercing through the strife
at a spot somewhere behind my third eye -
that saw way before the unforseen thing -
that only fills bad dreams happened.

I was poisioned by myself.
Gulping down, swallowing, the stench in the air
with that bottle of/healer of/white little
circular relievers of despair
Those 100 some odd pills that will free me
from having to pay my bills...

I need some real healing man
before that rhythm blues do it's due
and I breathe in no more tomorrow
and die from my yesterdays molded sorrows,
and my layawayed today
that's all on borrowed time
from the keeper of the gate
that makes me unsafe in my own skin -

Because, on a whim I dive into that wave of time,
that thin line between do or don't,
white flag or fight, live or die trying.
Shit! I tried in this life 
to buy me some more seconds
but I couldn't gather enough money
from my motha or my brotha
who I gave all my money to, a time or two ago
so that they could buy more time,
so I wouldn't have to watch them die!

I can't hold nobody else up
cause now I'm on the floor
and the world is that spinning top
that I got out of the bubble gum machine
and now I'm trapped inside
of this 25 cent piece of shit!

One voice is telling me to jump
from a gazillion stories up,
down into the mouth of death - 
Another voice is whispering my favorite tunes
loud enough to wake me up one second -
then I'm down the next.

There ain't no rhythm like my blues
and even doing my best, I am failing this test.
Death - I have not met you yet
but I feel like I've known you my entire life
and the time before that
and still then some -
So do what you will as I escape these blues

Walking in these shoes 
hearing the 10 o'clock news
is giving me the blackestblueblackestblue
and I'm waving the white flag -
I surrender
I've had it!
  ##

* * *

MY BLOOD IS HOT

My blood is hot
boiling
250 degrees
boiling -
My blood is hot
as it moves through
my veins
heavy 
with the burden of death
another life
cold
250 degrees
below zero cold
colder than snow and ice
packed tight
in the crevice of yo soul
cold
My blood is blue
blue as cobalt 
blue like the baby blue
of innocent skys
bluer and bolder
than the red hot
red blood
that blue turns
when air hits it
red
that dead red
of lost life
red blood
blue blood
lost loves
empty answers
bursting questions
overflowing tears
twisted up anxiety
exhausted hugs
buried heads
orange and yellow flowers
green velvet casket linings
purple choir robes
brown death crushed skin -
black suits
black socks and shoes
black stockings
black folks moaning
black songs cutting open hearts
black sunshine
twisting day 
into a million black nights -
My blood is hot
Boiling!  ##

* * *

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