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Branson Rideaux Jan 2017
I'm a black actor
So my monologues are gospel
my dialogues are political
my blocking is a statment
My diction is forgiven

I'm a black actor
So Shakespeare speaks above my melanin,
Avant guarde is a canvas too fresh for color
And the urban expierence
    Is a glove that fits too well to remove

I'm a black actor
So my casting is guaranteed
My bio line is their defense against vulturous social critics circling the audition table
They need a black actor
I'm a black actor
Branson Rideaux Dec 2016
What if we were wind?
Do winged words run with whispers to make breezes?
Would raging air be arguments that wane to a calm silence?
When cold wind whips and cuts you would a scream only result in wilder weather

Do words between lovers fill sails way out at sea?
Is the breeze between my fingers a laugh between old friends?
Are skyscrapers pushed by passionate fights between families?
Do my words meet yours in the currents of a storm?

Then when I miss my mother I will breath in the wind.
Take a deep breath and feel my lineage in my lungs.
Open a jar and pretend our dinner conversations are swirling inside.
Knowing my grandfather's last breath fans me when I'm heated.
Opening my window so the words I said to my father would fly in mountains and erode the pain it caused.
Letting my sisters voice sing through windchimes coming just short of its original beauty.
Giving a laugh that would meet a laugh from a friend somewhere in the 9000 mile difference between us.
I'll hold out my hand and try to hold the world.

Because if we are wind, then wind is wonderful.
Branson Rideaux Dec 2016
She runs recklessly
Shoes with no support slapping on concrete
Weeds sticking out pavement like flowers
She flies by barbed wire fences
Jumps over broken glass
Graceful like a swan
Dancing despite

He studies elegantly
Light bounces between bars landing on pages distorted Words faded by misuse covered by penned in screams
He breathes in words
Prideful and wise
Reading regardless

They sing peacefully
Notes decorate gunshots and sirens shaping city melodies
Measures permeate past pews and play through  derelict playgrounds
They chant stories
Flowing like a dream
Singing nonetheless

The city grows within bloackades
The neighborhood breathes through smoke
The family hugs in flickering dark
And it is beautiful.

— The End —