survival subroutines…

those human actions
evolved over a lifetime
as a response to
those who have had white privilege
developed to sustain dreams

 

sympathetic resonance…

words
and
wine
both flowing
ink
fills the pages
as
wine
fills the minds
two young poets
listening
to
miles
kind of blue
free form verses
swaying
on the page
to
changing tempos
rocking
back and forth
then
soaring
in
solos
incongruent
syllables
exposing
hidden emotions
from
deep within
their souls
pain
anger
and
moments
of
love
all revealed
in
a few stanzas
before
life interrupts

 

abstruse omissions…

i am
the empty space
between
enslavement
and
freedom
the chasms
between
what
was
promised
and
what came
to
pass
foolish dreams
from
an ignored
lover
of
freedom
who sees
nothing more
than
redefined moments
of
forgotten stories
of
the true founders
of
this nation
hidden
between
the printed lines
of
history books
written
in
the invisible blood
of
those enslaved
whose
undiscovered
mass graves
are concealed
by
the blank spaces
between
the lines
of
lies
your eyes
should tread
carefully
through
those spaces
so
as not
to
disturb
the
dead
for
seeing
what lies
beneath
the surface
of
this nation’s myths
could
make you
shed
tears
of
shame

 

an incomplete life…

the empty spaces
wedged between your dreams are fears
forced in by others

 

sunrise…

a corner seat
at
a daydream’s table
nothing
floating
between
the frames
on
my forehead
but
the sweet notes
of
piano music
and
memories
of
when magic
was
real
and
love would last
forever
an eternal flame
that
nothing
in life
could extinguish
and
the ticking of time
seemed
like
the sound
of
spring rain
on
a tin roof
rhythmic melodies
warm
as
a lover’s breath
and
as
a sweet
a morning tea
here
in
my
corner
seat

 

arson…

blazes
intentionally set
to
deprive
others
of
what they have
paid
for
with
sacrifices
of
blood
and
flesh
the hard labors
of
a lifetime
turned
into
smoldering
remnants
of
freedom
and
charred dreams
of
a better nation
a nation
which
could evolve
into
it’s
own
myth
were it
not
for
political arsonists
setting fires
and
then
offering
to put them out
for
the mere price
of
your soul
a so called
deal
of
the century

 

while you were waiting…

i’ve noticed
that
you’ve
begun
to talk
to
shadows
and
wait
quietly
for
their reply
one
that never comes
but
still
you wait
like
some marble monument
depicting
an unknown saint
slain
in
the service
of
an unknown god
i
suspect
that
you
do not see
the
encroaching darkness
nor
understand
the perils
of
your compromising
you’re
too engrossed
in
your dreams
of
power
to
see
or
hear
death’s proclamation
i
claim
your
soul
for serving
the
god
apate