Off to the Races
On your mark, get set
No.
We are naturally wary of different
Our anticipatory
Participation in fear
Blinds us from the signs
That classification
Of the population
Fuels separation
In our great nation
And the degradation
Of our education
Through miscommunication
Due to deprivation
Of alleviation
As far as the segregation
Taking its formation
In our imagination.
These bounds we set
To set us apart
Take hold in heart
Because we impart
The notion of racism
Through our pride
Proud to be black
Proud to be white
Proud to be
Whatever it is that is me.
I’m sure it is right
Though I did not choose
No I wasn’t trusted with choice
I wasn’t given an option
No opinion to voice
I came as I am
I came as man
With no color in mind
Nor hate in heart.
No limits exist
To whom
They were never shown
Never taught
Through words or by deed
Never separated
Through race or creed
Disparity through diversification
Norms forming cult cultures
Secluded islands of identifiers
Imprisoned in our tradition
Caught up in the familial familiarity
Of being a drop in a raincloud
Growing heavier each summer day
Until the burden bursts
Out in thunderous roar.
And yet the race will remain
Runners at their mark
Pushing to get ahead of the pack
Forgetting there is no finish-line
Since it was never a race at all.

This place is so white.

the patrol car has left the block once more,
a bull shark circling
nearer to some shore, headlights
blared, a black silhouette steering the vehicle;

night kisses the horizon, pecks it sharp
like a bullet case
scraping the darkling pavement,
only the whitest stars visible above.

many like me stroll sidewalks at this hour,
smoking a stogie
or sitting on empty swings
in playgrounds vacant of laughter; it is better

that children sleep while they can and can dream
before the true night,
that blight of bruise blue, sirens
wailing on their way to steal away some dark man

from the streets. where I stand on an apartment stoop
I count the vehicle
for the fourth time, lurking
out around the corner, like a wolf dressed metallic.

nothing gets better come nightfall. nothing
gets done while asleep.
i slip on my shadow, hood
dark, concealing my face. lean back into the steps

and light another cigarette. inhale.
exhale. most don’t have
to worry: their paleness turns
them ghostly, invisible, to the patrolling cars.

but I wear my darkness. i wish I knew
how to make sparks fly,
have them issue from throat, crack
into splinters of glass. the law tells me to sit

but I refuse. i am a phosphorus
fuse; i am whitened;
but i am impoverished,
and I too have my own reasons to be frightened.

Ever wondered how does that person breaks who is second? The one who couldn't win because he missed with a few points? The one who is left behind because he didn't compare to the winner? No, and his devastation is the biggest heartbreak because he was everything the winner was, and just a little less, and the greatest loss felt is by him and not the person last in race. His determination was that of winner and yet no one's going to remember him but only the winner

A facade is all it is, a facade is all it ever will be.
This costume placed upon me by the standards of society to hide my inner being, to disguise my outward appearance, to dim the lights too bright to shine upon the eyes of the world, is strangling my soul.
I try to shed this outfit, piece by piece.
First goes the shoes, made of stone so heavy as to hinder me from ever taking a forward step on the road to success.
The pants go next, designed with the softest of material, extra cushion where it counts the most, no wonder I've been so comfortable just sitting on my ***.
Naturally I now begin to rip off the layers of jackets and coats and shirts, originally placed upon myself to stay warm and safe in this cold, cold world full of harsh words and even harsher beatings. All the while not realizing what I've been hiding all along, my heart and soul.
I now feel free enough to stand with my brethren.
I can see my skin, black as night, different from the rest but they still welcome me in, so I go.
I pull up a chair to sit at my rightful place at the round table, to finally join in the conversation that I've missed out on for so long.
But I can't understand the discussion.
These words that they speak, I cannot seem to make sense of.
I've been deemed as dumb and placed outside of the circle.
I've been betrayed.
But, just as I begin to plan my revenge, I realize the piece of clothing I forgot to remove: my hat.
My lucky hat, or so they told me.
I was told that nothing can penetrate it, however it is the exact opposite: nothing can escape.
My mind has been blocked, my thoughts, my ideas, all of my capabilities cut off from the world.
Once removed I can finally be free!
The rest of the group has now realized my discovery, their eyes fill with terror as they scramble towards me.
I reach for my head, they reach for my arms.

Everybody is running
it is a race to the top
be careful with the cunning
and be ready for a flop


Because it is a race to the top
You'll be needing a strategy
either a friend or an enemy
that soon you will drop
because of jealousy


Some will pass you by
then stub you in the eye
Some will push you down
then will take your crown
Some will lend a hand
only to drop you and it's planned


The way to the summit
will never be facile
sure there are scummy
do not be fragile


That is the way to the top
Just play the game
clean and *****
it will never be fair

Each thing I do I rush through so I can do
something else. In such a way do the days pass—
a blend of stock car racing and the never
ending building of a gothic cathedral.
Through the windows of my speeding car, I see
all that I love falling away: books unread,
jokes untold, landscapes unvisited. And why?
What treasure do I expect in my future?
Rather it is the confusion of childhood
loping behind me, the chaos in the mind,
the failure chipping away at each success.
Glancing over my shoulder I see its shape
and so move forward, as someone in the woods
at night might hear the sound of approaching feet
and stop to listen; then, instead of silence
he hears some creature trying to be silent.
What else can he do but run? Rushing blindly
down the path, stumbling, struck in the face by sticks;
the other ever closer, yet not really
hurrying or out of breath, teasing its ****.

-Stephen Dobyns