as we collect our stories and reclaim our names
we become aware of the possibility
that, in fact, we always live with our ancestors
as we collect our stories and reclaim our names
we start to contrive
the raw material
to obtain our fibers
as we collect our stories and reclaim our names
we start to cultivate the insights of how those fibers can be woven into strands
that when interlocked with other fibers
create a collective blanket, untold histories

No, not a patchwork-quilt, not a melting ***, not a salad bowl
not a room full of flags with countries we cant place on a map
and full of people WE can’t help but fetishize
no, No, NO
this is an interwoven stitch
this is a tattered rag
that has been used to wipe **** off of colonizer’s *******
that has been used to wipe the dripping *** off of Thomas Jefferson’s ****
as he finishes up with his Saartjie Baartman,
that has been used to hide the faces of the KKK as they drag uppity black boys down the street
and LYNCH them in carnival and spectacle
that has been soaked in Black and Brown blood on the streets of
Ferguson, Baltimore, New York, North Carolina, Milwaukee, and every other city and district in the US of KKK

This is not a handholding session with me
I am the oppressor and I must fear my own wrath
my fiber is white, my strand is white
and too many strands are white
and too many Black, Brown, Red, and Yellow strands have been bleached
or told “wait your turn to be included in the blanket"
or "be thankful we even include you in the stitching
give us a TOKEN of gratitude”
I take YOUR strands and use them to cloth MY babies while yours lie naked

The time is now
to take the clorox and gulp it down as it eviscerates our throats and consumes our souls
We don’t need anymore whitewashed histories
we dont need anymore white sheets
we don’t need to go to BED, BATH, and BEYOND
I cannot come to you with a bail full of cotton and ask you to join me in a knitting session
#IMNOTRACISTBUT…

this is not a time for diversity and multiculturalism
or the co-option of “social justice”

this is a time for Solidarity

this is a time for Liberation

this is a time for Abolition

this is a time for Insurrection

this is a time for Rebellion

this is a time for Revolution

I cannot be the leader
but I can contribute
I cannot be the voice
but I can sure has hell listen

and this is how we will transform the blanket
not with hollow words and moderate reforms
but with direct action and liberatory collaboration
by yelling the phrase “white supremacy is as American as apple pie” at the top of our lungs

not with corporate funding and 5,000 dollar a plate galas
but by dismantling the looms that have woven the threads of
Hate, ****, Land theft, and Genocide
that have woven the strands of
reservations, redlining, white flight, and gentrification
and by co-creating ones that speak to our destroyed histories
that refuse to use the bleach
even when the blanket gets *****

I used to want to be a DJ until I met one.
I used to want to be a DJ until he left my ears ringing with all the things I had done wrong like cymbals in my face.
I used to want to be a DJ because they looked like they were finger painting music on vinyl,
but the one I knew dug knuckles into my tissue-paper chest and called it his job.
I thought a DJ's job was to make art.
I used to want to be a DJ until I learned they etch their fingerprints into your record and forget (refuse?) to wipe them off.
I had his vinyls propped up against my wall. I wanted to rip his name off all of them.
I used to want to be a DJ until I sat in his office listening to the lies he put in his lyrics.
I wanted to find the console and turn the audio down, but instead I looked for him to console me.
I wanted him to sympathize but that too would have been synthesized.
I used to want to be a DJ until I learned they amplify your weaknesses and loop them, loop them, loop them.
I wanted to fade to the background but 'if you ain't redlining, you ain't headlining,'
and I was redlining, I was redlining, I was redlining-
looped and scratched and mixed until I was my very own single,
alone.
my tears the only streaming platform that he could not control.
I used to want to be a DJ until he shut me in my own dead air.
he had other records to make and other albums to fill.
I never did learn what he labeled me.

Here I go
There goes my heart
Again,
Driving wild horses
Racing fast
Reckless
Pedal to the metal
6th gear
Redlining
Throttle wide open
Music loud
Speakers blaring
I can see the embankment
But I'm riding
Shotgun
Oh **** handle
Turning
My knuckles white
The brake lines
Might as well be cut
Barreling down
This treacherous
Downhill spiral
Loving blind
Through
Windshield streaks
Of dead bugs
Splattered,
Going to plummet
Down the abyss
We'll crash and burn
And do it over again...
APAD13 - 070 © okpoet

lauren elise  Normally I wouldn't instigate like this, but NFL players aren't simply taking a knee for the fun of it. If you want to go as far back as Normandy, let's talk about the forced migration of slaves to the United States, the colonialist division of African nations, and the pillaging and ****** that accompanied that. Let's talk about the forced separation of black families as they were sold off like livestock, the rapes of slave women, the beatings of slave men. Let's talk about the implemented indentured servitude after slavery was abolished, that kept free black people enslaved and poor because they had no resources, no money and no dignity. The lynchings and the discrimination. Let's talk about the de jure segregation that divided school districts, neighborhoods, and deprived people of color of access to equal education and job opportunities. How about the exclusion of black women from women's rights movements? They did not receive the same rights at the same time as white women. When segregation was abolished, how about the de facto segregation, the redlining, the defunding of black neighborhoods that sentenced them to poverty and disqualified them this American notion of "equal opportunity?" What about when the poverty and lack of education increased the crime and drug activity that has led to the mass criminalization of black communities? The school to prison pipeline? Think about the fact that people of color have not been legally "equal" to white people for even 100 years. The police brutality today mirrors the police brutality of the Civil Rights era. Everything that black people face on this day is a result of the dehumanization and discrimination that white people imposed on them from the start. This is not coincidental protest. This is not ungrateful. Our soldiers have fought for our rights from the start, but not always for the rights of people of color. Peaceful protest is an American right. Plus, let's not talk about disrespect for American soldiers and veterans when our very own "President" is the first person to disrespect them.

Into deep depths, dependent on breadth,
redlining death, lingual flexing.
Thread the new lead, fed on white bread,
a pencil pretends it's not vexing

Next thing you know, end of the show,
red curtains flow, script continues.
Wish we could grow, emotions stow,
sadness, the foe, deep within you.

A sin you believed, your conscience relieved,
the consequence, leave all your values.
No time to grieve, train's gonna leave,
could you retrieve it, or shall you?

Wailing below us, the truth hides.
It's not what we think, or believe.
It's not what we see, or think it'll be,
It's not even real, but the light within-

She,
Is a light.
She,
Is an angel
She,
Doesn't fight
She,
remains faithful
We,
aren't alright.
We,
aren't going.
We,
mustn't try,
We,
cannot go where she needs us to be


A drink

The wizened barman pours another drink
The waiting patron grasps and gulps it down
The barman says, "Now what is it you think
you'll find in that brew, but not in this town?"

The drunk says, "Man, you'd laugh if I told you,
The reason I'm so broken down and cold."
Barman says, "Try me, talk until you're blue."
The drunk says, "Have a seat then, first I've told."

The barman takes a seat and he looks on.
The drunkard pauses, sips, and draws a breath.
The barman tilts his head. "Is something gone?"
The drunkard nods, "I caused my own wife's death."

They sit in silence, the barman stands up.
He sits back down and pours himself a cup.

"You aren't the first to come here drowned in blue."
The barman tilts the bottle back upright.
The drunkard shakes his head, "If that were true,
I'd like to meet the ones who share my plight."

The barman says, "Now, I'm the first you told,
but do you think that means you'll tell yet more?"
The barman, seeing sadness, "I won't scold,
but men who share your plight are in a war."

The drunk says, "War? You must elaborate."
The barman laughs, "It's war within themselves."
He glances at the clock, "It's getting late,
last call for liquor." He points to his shelves.

The two men drank until the morning came.
And, left alone, he stroked a picture frame.

life interrupted, rolling the dice, every time i leave the house, hoping not to get snake eyes.

always and forever, a 2nd wave is coming, the future is darkening, i am losing my will to fight.

dreams get more frightening, the horror intensifying, what are the screams about, i can't make them out, mommy make them stop.

i exhume the past, replaying the dead like marionettes, were did it go wrong, it was my fault, you would still be alive.

trapped in nightmare, life is a labyrinth, my mind is redlining, i need the ******, to have some salvation.

they built homes
with brick and stone
on the land where my ancestors bled the red that runs through our bones
and denied us loans
to flourish in these homes
and build the wealth
that will grant my children’s children better health.
this
on the very land that my ancestors bled the red that runs through our bones

-redlining