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Array
(
[sid] => 116879
[catid] => 1
[aid] => mick
[title] => A King Worth Killing
[time] => 2006-03-22 21:43:29
[hometext] =>
[bodytext] => Under that black top hat Stitched within its barers Cause rests Uncle Tom, And a delightful game Of ring around the rosy Meets the ashes of What's to come while All the kids fall back, As they watch Rosa Run in circles looking For the head of the pack. Then he stood, a foot in the grave as they gave the tipping point a blunt wrapped in those ashes. I smoked the bones of the land and braved to go on the brim, as niggers splintered the thin lumber and Black Jack Johnson turned limbs towards the kids; calling "timber!" until white men went limp, in the heat of summer. Coreta's in the corner, Making Martin's death bed, As the sheets get caught In that stubborn old birch tree, While the willows trembled And their passionate tears Burn two holes through These thin covers of purity, Before they go opaque And twist their corners in To hug her screaming throat. We came engraved on stumps from the cherry tree that was chopped down, which became our coffin as drops of resin incased our tasteless eye. The golden apple was stolen from the hands holding time. Washington watched them enter the garden and pick leaves from the money tree, that brought dead presidents crumbling to their knees. So sit at the head of my table and tell me of the minorities who's basket came back empty. Then reach for the blood sun with the rope between the dirty leaves where poverty is hung. Monotony sowed it's seed when stores showed how deep we breath into hollow roots. We wore shirts that spoke volumes to listeners that were mute. They clothed our hatred and naked, undressed resentment, that loathed complacent truth. We all followed suit, soon enough. We all supported it, sporting outfits from innocent fists of infants gone missing under wheel barrows; carrying deals scandals materialized to hide narrow wrists peeling proof. Mississippi state of mind; Paths are being blazed, As Fredrick Douglas Leads a train of thought Underground, directly Through the grave. Meet at the safe house, But mind the barbed wire. The plantation stands As the sun's eclipsed And each step leaves An asphalt highway. Roads are overgrown hospitals since we sold peace by the kilo to those homes in the ghetto; knowing young ones loved fame, wanting to snort the light, but it distorted the bright faced horizon into sporadic afternoons, where the moon shine quietly made life frightful of black men that had broken bottles, but their guns cast no shadows. Hear the dogs bleed Their hungering screams Into the dense air, As Jesus yanks the collar So hard that a spark Is born in dry atmosphere, While the darkness Watches from between Gaps in the forrest's fingers, Before the flame Dances up the arms Of a quivering evergreen. The two thick trunks burn Steady until all their limbs Have been singed off And all that remains Is a charred may pole, As Jesus starts dancing Hand in hand with ignorance, Before the polls falter; Land crossed on the ground, As embers light their pride. And as all these new Constellations fall from The rippling skies, Jesus opens his eyes; Falls upon God's lost cross, Into his transfixed crucifixion And begins to cry. ... And there, Betsy Ross Sits on her colonial porch Watching it all happen. Gazing threw the spaces Of the railing she watches Every black man there Trapped between the bars Of that white picket fence; Then tilts her heavy head Down and continues sewing. As the needle of that syringe Cracks her ivory thimble, As all seven red stripes Began to bleed away, Leaving a clean white Page To fly at half mast. This past is nobody's flag that is flown over the rags of epitaphs. Our plague is on parade and we walk with crooked swags that are gladly bound and gagged. Who will praise this symbol if it's raised with simple prejudice for the thimble and the thread as we dragged our feet with bliss? They proclaim to wave proud and brag about names mentioned, being ashamed of the attention willing to make them a famous nation, over a king worth killing. Continue to pace crab Grass and broken shards Of that stained glass Window that decided to Kiss the blarney stone. As the windows opened, The fog ran in, then Tiptoed over every note And began to dance... Hand in hand, toe to toe; Jesus was romanced. The music led; fog followed; As the choir stood in awe And watched the swallows. They just stood there, Providing the soundtrack To the last site of equality... Before the fog became Tangled in threads of sanity. Faster the two twirled about; Thread growing titer around The Minister's cold throat As the two continue to dance; Following the orchestrators Hands before he raises them... As the noose tightens, And Malcolm wears an "X" Over each eye lid... As he dies on a high note. Likewise, when Martin Luther realized how steep the steps where inside each steeple, he cried, "When I die... I'll scribe my Alibi in metal. Tell me if there's life above what we call good and evil! Why should people fight while time passes away our rights?" I've tried to turn the knob, I've tried to knock on the doors with the force of praying hands. But this neutral lock the Smiths picked to hold the broken pieces of people's complete soul can't fit through the key-whole... The church clears, The screaming spectators Disperse through the Various halls to find an exit, While with ever ear piercing Screech Malcolm lifts Farther into the darkness Of the cathedral rafters. Join us here, after the dead letters are opened again, and the spine of the Bible breaks under the devil's pen. He's drawn blood, while we've foregone awe to wonder if dawn will come. All it spawned was sons, that our daughters saw shunned to fields dreamed in cotton. But, there's a straggler. Harriet has lost her way; Stumbling through the halls. It seams the walls have eyes, They see all, and judge more. She stop dead, reached a fork In the cavernous hallways, To the right she gazed Into the light at the end of The tunnel, before she turned... Looked quick then ran left As she disappeared........ ............ Into the darkness. [comments] => 3 [counter] => 275 [topic] => 25 [informant] => Jeremy_B [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 5 [ratings] => 1 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => MiscPoems )
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