let me paint you a picture
in shades of black and white
in shades of those who ****
and those who fight
this is what racism looks like
black men with paper hearts
armed with cardboard swords
white men dipped in ivory steel
white men born armed with skin
it's a black man with hands
raised to the heavens
and seeing hell as his last sight
this is what racism feels like
it's your black breath
being ****** out of your lungs
by white hands of white men
dressed in blue gilded in gold
this is what racism sounds like
it's an 18-year old's last words
it's a mother's cry at a police station
it's a bullet racing through the air
this is what racism is
it is not poetry
it's a black man wearing a red shirt
and getting shot six times
this is no crusade
there is no holy purpose
this is the star-spangled truth
a flag drenched in black blood
this is the truth bared in ink
and no poetry can save it

here's the thing:

there are days when i lose my rhythm of life
my legs stumble across walking flat pavement
i lose my balance on the stable ends of the road
i jump headfirst in manholes meant for excavation
and i refuse to exit the darkness
there are days like these

there are days when i run dry
my mouth becomes a desert crawling with prayers
my flesh is a wasteland of golden opportunity
my vision is a disfigured specter in shades of grey
and every sound translates into white noise
there are days like these

there are days when words do not help
every apology and thank you leaves me raw
i bleed and hurt and bleed and hurt
and every word still leaves me ******
i will allow myself to be empty on days like these
there will always be days like these

these days do not end in salvation
these are the horsemen of my apocalypse
and on the backs of every stallion
is a part of me that tramples over
the greatest dimensions of who i am
they leave prints not easily covered
they leave me a little more scarred
they leave me a little more tired

here's the thing:

these are the days that become my muses
these are the days of great wreckage
and someday these days will be myths
great stories meant for the taking
but for now
this is the truth.

in the manufactured waves of chlorine
my feet stand on concrete shores
and tiles grappled with maritime life
of dead leaves that have crept its way
in an ecosystem of unnatural residents
with sunken treasures buried beneath
the heavy blankets of swimmers' feet
a child's lost pair of goggles gleams
in the crevices of the ceramic seabed
sunbeams bounce off the plastic
an underwater mirage for the pool's
regular inhabitants armed in spandex
these are the common sights
of The Public Pool
and it's in the rare quiet moments
of carefully constructed serenity
when you are the sole ruler of
your concrete public pool kingdom
when your camp has been pillaged
by a thousand 5 year olds garbed
in their best hot pink speedo suits
and equipped with the best water guns
maintaining their positions like
a modern Praetorian legion swathed
in modern day mass-produced tunics
huddled in formation with limbs afloat
assembled and hungry to conduct
a carefully constructed battle of dominance
when the water surrounding you
suddenly feels too warm
it's too warm for it to be the chlorine
and you look up to see their leader –
their leader in the speedo silicone swim cap
is flushed as red as her speedo suit: a sight
against the synthetic cerulean landscape
that you realize:
you own nothing in this world
even the public pool gets invaded
even the public pool gets ****** in
so you might as well enjoy shallow ends
and every little joy life has to offer
the universe will **** itself eventually

on the steps of the notre dame
i lost my sense of color
every moonbeam through the
cracked walls of the House of God
danced around me like blue gypsies
performing a ritual upon
every ringlet of hair on my head

in the catacombs of paris
i lost my sense of touch
every skull feeling like silk
dead calcium caressing
the flesh beneath which
my bones were moving
alive and restless

beneath the arc de triomphe
i lost myself
the curve of stone caving in on me
like a Parisian Goliath
and I, a madman David
names of fallen soldiers
engraved upon the walls
breathed back to life
from dust they have returned
they reach into my cerebrum
their stone fingers pulsing
with the hymnals of war
to meet with the battle
of indigos and crimsons coursing
through every nerve of my anatomy

behind the eiffel tower
i lost my art
paris lights beating down
a beast sleeping through the
tides of eulogies and odes
its orphans have to offer