first the crow came often
with a clump of hair in its beak
its glassy eyes would soften
as its wings weakened and waned
now the crow doesn't come
to my tree anymore
but i still hear wings hum
past the crack of the door

I don't remember when I finally figured out
that racism is real. But when I was much younger,
I think I was somewhat uneasy with how
the white girls
were always the prettiest because
we saw them on TV,
having adventures
in pink dresses.

Of course one had to wonder
where one could see himself or herself
on a TV screen without being made
a secondary character; a black
Shadow.

When the crow crows
outside my silent room
Perhaps a message ?
I guess..
From None -
From Nowhere to Nobody?
Whatever--
I wish it to be crowing sitting on a green bough--
cause they say it is evil omen
if it crows from a dead(dry) one..
I wish it.
But..
at the same time
I feel *** is the problem with the branch--
green or dead ?
When the message is
from None's Nobody from Nowhere ?

An old soul,
Curled up on the street.
Marks of burn,
Peeling skin,
Silent cry from the parched throat,
Agony on every turn,
Howl for food,
A sob in between,
Or was it the muscles' twist and turn?
Why did the burn,
Take just the skin,
Why didn't the heat,
Make some food,
Or give some heat,
On this cold street?!
And just then,
A passing gentleman,
In a black suit,
But without a boot,
Dropped me a drop of food,
And said, 'Look at that tree,
Burned in fire, jealousy and heat,
Soaked in rain, vain and pain,
Gnarled beyond the shadow's recognition,
Death has found him no definition,
So, you just rest in peace,
I will drop you daily,
Life in bits and pieces.'

Black is thy name.
Black is thy shroud.
If I were to open thee,
What shall be seen?


I can feel thy Black
Soul as I spread thy
Broken wings. I hear
Each hour chime thy


Dirge and call thy
Name. I shall spread
My shoulders' blades
And feel them rise


Against my tyrannical
Skin; as thou wouldst rise
In the charcoal heavens,
Perverting it with thy


Black flock; as The Morning Star
Rose against tyrant rule
So too shall my shoulders'
Blades against my suffocating


Skin. What shall we see if
They emancipated are, or
I, eviscerated? Shall I be
Black as thee beneath my


Flesh? My ribs, and hips,
Bones, and fingers now do
The same. My bruised flesh
Shall see not the day.

What shall we see when the
Rest of it falls away? A *****
Of bones that droningly cry,
As thou screech thy name?


I think I shall be like thee,
Black in heart and Black in
Blood. I am stillborn. I shall
No longer see the day.