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Chris Chaffin Jan 2021
If Heaven does exist,
I wonder if a sun shines there.

It seems an awfully cold place to me,
locked away behind those pearly gates,
supported by clouds.

I wonder if so much whiteness is good
for the soul, for the eyes, for the mind—

surely, there is some sort of fire up above
to balance that below.

I wonder if I would know the difference
between the heat of His love
and the heat of what He has created.

If Heaven does indeed exist,
I hope it is orange and yellow and red.
I hope it is warm.
Z Atari Jul 2020
Wanna be an all American!
As my corpse tries to jump out of it's dead brown skin
The fair foundation has been working again
Our experiences have been exactly the same!
Hearing your hesitancy in the pronunciation of this name
roll it out like the Princess Bride- all the words every time
Reinforcing this breath I will be the punchline but
Can you cry a god back into your heart
Rolling like thunder behind your own title
Whisper it back and then still be rid of the shame?
Decolonize a spirit with  Raid™️
Keep only one tongue and let the other one fade
being proud to be black is more important than
caution tape around a social construction zone
that is also an advertisement
also is a warning
in another language
pay attention to this
if you do not then this will happen
whiteness or else!
whiteness or else!
screaming it
acting like its this pretty evolved thing to be
technologically advanced
to the ultimate in dissociative technology
Organic Intelligence knows within power struggle of language
advertisements and warnings are the same
Samuel Fox Apr 2016
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.
the clay watched with rented breath
the red robe genuflect before
the dirt-dark nailed wood.

strange words were uttered
choral echoes flew
they too would bend their knees
those veiled long hair
those oval faces with scanning eyes.

the red robe spoke
they moved the corners of their mouths
till they were too far
they nodded, and nodded, and nodded
they did not know how to stop.
the red robe did not speak
he read from two slabs.

the air cracked by a
tip-toe cadence of metallic muttering
they held their breath
but there was panting.

with one unseen flicker
that stole as fast as
light shot from up beyond
perched on that dirt-dark nailed wood
a dove of light of blinding vaporous whiteness.

we hid our eyes.
our faces too.

we only saw a tall slender spiral staircase
that ascended a long, long,
long way.
Emanuel Martinez Apr 2015
I am worth being valued for existing
Not only in the moments
That I become relevant, necessary, or useful
For lustful, celebratory or inspirational insanity

I am not a lollipop or an exotic destination
Stop exploring me *******
Because you salivate over this Hispaniola
Beautiful island desecrated and decimated

How many beautiful spirits will you make savages
How many pure rivers will you **** blood on
How many conquests will you claim a stake in
How much balance will you disturb and subjugate
to the trauma of your transitory exploration

There's no impunity for conquerors
Who taste, plunder, disguise disapproval in their apologies and move on

There's no impunity for conquerors
Who pick and choose who's worth
Of validation, when, & how

There's no impunity for conquerors
Who play with men and women
Hierarchize their prey
But fail to acknowledge
Their man-child whitewashed
Hidden agendas & rigged market values

Conquerors haunted by the trauma they've caused
Will not be absolved by the revolution

Neither will the revolution be the breast
That heals conquers who are traumatized
By the realization of their own fuckery
April 22, 2015

— The End —