by Edd Brown Jr.
Momma sweating, slaving over cooking.
One thing on her mind is shooting.
She don’t get too many breaks, so its relaxation she injecting
and in her imagination, it’s movies on a projection
with my Pops next to her, I’d imagine.
The hood blocked the light from reaching her,
The hood persuaded the poison into her,
The hood looks a lot like the reaper from my window blinds. How much could I profit is on my mind…
Is that a black thought?
or black thoughts staining my heart with tar like tobacco smoke from the exhaust of a car?
How far do I have to run to escape the hate,
how many miles does it take
to drive love into my nat-ure? or culture?
Now that sounds like a black thought, but is it really when the dark gets caught up, cheating
so now he, I mean it, is bleeding?
screaming, and I’m just
seeing, not believing, but I’m
learning and thinking. Ironically that’s when momma started shooting, and I started
scheming, thinking black.
Honestly wishing someone just teach me what it means to live honestly, but
I’m hated, obviously.
My humanity has been disintegrated because of my