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.

the dead poet of your romantic youth
left behind his melodious words in song
left behind his roadside fast eyes neatly packaged
still can purchase his dream down at the five and dime
still can find a tight leather pants version
of his photograph looking lizard like
in clean bollywood style

the dead poet of your romantic youth
lingers there in her eyes
she always said he was so rad
with her eighties big hair
the dead poet was in one of his many revivals
they would drag the poor old slob out
prop him up and take a picture
the dead poet lizard king
his words faded now
as his star on the walk of fame

The herd enjoys it when tongues whack in rhyme
The master’s clap beats on not far behind
Mine and my lady try not to resign
To politics that bloat and tar the mind

While not far from here a tyre whines
The traffic crawls to break its broken spines
The plates and doors drag you in for more
And they’ll pay you the minimum, Son, to suffer their clack and roar

You’ll see the ghost of tenderness
Hidden underneath
The rolling iron hail
Calling out for peace

You’ll hear the labyrinth engine crack
And groan and freeze
And throw smoke in the face of the King
As he falls on blunted knees

But you can find solitude and ***
In your humble lover’s nest
And boy you best let beauty and grace
Into your bones

It’s okay to feel undone
Not quite at home
But reconcile yourself to know
Your soul has seeds unsown

You’ll see the star-tossed lake at ease
The nimble breathing trees
And the dew-drops dance from branch to branch
And shake the leaves

You’ll hear the gentle whisper of dawn
The robin’s hallowed song
And see yourself for the man you’ve always been
All along

The one with no regrets
No promised safety nets
No promised anything beyond the stage
And an ink-soaked hand

No compromise or hate
No gift of heaven’s gate
No way to know
But just the will, the will, the will