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Father
All you could hear
coming from his father’s house was screaming
And somebody
taking hit after hit after hit
Little Quadri ran
out of his father’s front door screaming “that’s it!
I’m leaving. I’m leaving for real this time.”
But for some
reason he couldn’t get his father out of his mind
Because he knew
time after time he had tried to leave before
Time after time he
had tried to walk out of his father’s front door
Because he
couldn’t stay
Nor could he leave
Nor could he
continue to accept the neglect and abuse he received
He had faint
memories of being embraced by his mother’s red black and green sleeve
And he needed to
find her
And though her
cypher and embrace had been replaced by his father’s other woman
He knew the
difference
He knew the difference
because he wasn’t as significant as her other children
And they bore a
stronger resemblance to his father
So it
bothered him when his father would beat him because he looked too much like his
mother
It bothered him
when is Aunty Liberty took him as her lover
Nightmares of her
hovering over him in the middle of the night
He knew it wasn’t
right
All them trips up
state
When she would
take and rape him
She would take and
rape him so much that his family trust turned to hate
But she would make
him keep silent or be whipped
So she whipped
like his father whipped him to get on that ship
With lies on his
lips
And false
pretenses that his mother had dipped and left him behind
So he
punished and fined her with child support checks and international debts for
his father’s crimes
Crimes like the
crimes he committed when his dimes were short
And he walked out
the house broke
He pushed a little
dope
Got his hustle on
he learned from Uncle Sam
It’s “all good” as
long as you keep it in the “fam”
No matter who you
hurt
That’s how system
always works and at least he got it honestly
Because his
honesty only ended him up in the penitentiary
And Uncle Sam, nor
Aunty Liberty, nor Father
He started to
doubt whether he could make it
He had thoughts of
going back, because maybe he could take it
He wrote to his
father’s family, but they never wrote him back
He wrote
to his mother’s family, but they couldn’t get over the fact that he was his
father’s child
He reminded them
too much of the wild uncivilized man who raped and left their mother
International
sisters and brothers, yet strangers
Even
national sisters of color became his lover yet fell victim to the danger of
hating each other
So he was still alone
And though biologically he was fully-grown
Mentally and emotionally he was still a kid
Looking for the love and protection that his father
never did
Seeking justice, freedom and affection that he never
fully lived
While he sat in that jail, sat in that jail growing
tired and sick
Sick and tired of serving time for his father’s crime
Flashbacks crowded his mind
Of being lost in the red, white, and blue metamorphosis
Praying for an international social services
Aunty Liberty’s
molestation
Estranged sisters
and brothers in foreign nations
Father
And Uncle Sam
corrupting anything honest left of his self
And all he had
left of his self
Was the need to
find freedom, his mother, and death
He wept on the way
back to his father
Found peace in the
memories of his mother
Of thee I sing”
In hopes of
futures for his sons and daughters
Land of the
pilgrim’s pride”
Made amends with
his sisters and brothers
Found freedom in the
slaughter of his father
All you could hear
coming from his father’s house was screaming
And glass breaking
Father
The Last Poem
I’m tired of
writing poems
I tired of
pointing out everyone’s rights and wrongs
And singing sad
songs that nobody hears
I’m tired of
telling my people to look in the mirror to overcome their fears
I’m tired of
getting on the mic and screaming “fight the power!”
Trying to convince
them that this is our revolution
I’m tired of
giving away free solutions that nobody uses
I feel like I’m
abusing my god given gift
If I can’t lift
the people’s consciousness
And maybe its best
that I just shut the fuck up if they’re gonna give me their ass to kiss
Class is dismissed
because I’m tired of preaching
I’m tired of
preaching when theirs nobody reaching out for the truth
There’s nobody
looking into their roots
And I know my
words produce fruits
And I know there’s
thieves out there ready to loot my trees of knowledge
Random acts of
violence cross my mind every time I feel the need
To protect my
roots to protect my trees to protect my seeds
Praying that they
feed from my fruit and achieve true self-determination
Praying they heed
my words and seek unity in this nation
When my words can
teach accountability to our poets and poltical figures
When my
words can convince our people to to take their hands off of the trigger and
fight for something bigger
When we start to call each other brothers, sisters,
kings, and queens instead of niggers
That’s when a poem is no longer a poem but a scripture
But no matter how loud I scream on the mic
No matter how sincere I may seem on the mic
If my people are not willing to join the fight
If they close their eyes and ears and don’t stand up for
their rights
If they continue to run from the rain and storm and don’t
head the words I warn
No matter what I say on the mic
The words I recite is just a poem
And a poem is not strong enough to reform my ways
But damn – I spent too many days preaching on paper to
not live by what I say
Or to let my phrases be phased out by phases of my life
When I know I’m not living right
Blasphemy against the words I write I often site myself
as an exception to the rule
Playing nobody but my self as a fool if I can’t use my
own words as a tool to live by
But I want to die with truth on my lips
Knowing that every time I stepped to the mic I ripped it
But if my words prove to be a myth
And the people can shift through my pages of revolution
And my actions didn’t show it
Then I just die a poet
And a poet can not give the people sight
A poet can not end the people’s strife
So I’m tired of writing poems I want to write life
I want to write life
I want to speak life
I want to breath life
Life like the panthers bred into the neighborhood
children with their breakfast program
Life like Lowndes County first black political party when
they used the black panther’s as a slogan
Life like SNCC’s freedom rides when they refused to abide
by segregation
Life like Asata Secour when she blew off the prison doors
to fight for black power in this nation
You see I’ve seen to many manipulating ministers
preaching to the congregation
And I’ve seen to many fake ass poets rhyming about
salvation
To know that aggregation by words and words alone
Cannot produce freedom
So all these poets, and preachers, and MC’s
That can talk about it and not be about it are just
heathens
Matter fact, next show you go to
Approach the prophetic poet and ask if you can speak with
them
And when they ask you to support with your dollars in the
name of unity
Ask them “how have you supported your community?”
Most of them will tell you about shows, or when they went
on tour, or how many CD’s they sell
If they tell you this or if they stumble or they say
“Man, I’m just chillin”
You can tell the hopeless visionaries from the real
revolutionaries
Matter fact if they are your local poets you don’t even
have to ask
Just try to remember the last time you seen or heard them
organizing change
Instead of concentrating on how fast they can rhyme for
some pitiful poets fame
You see if the same people continue sitting on their
artistic petistools
Trying to play the masses as fools by battling and
rapping and preaching, and politicking, and yappin
And not in the community making it happen
Then the art is reduced to poetry
But it metamorphosis into a creed
When you see the artist out there just doing it
And they’re producing and organizing as well as schooling
They got the scars, and the protest, and the programs to
prove it
These are they ones that are true to it
And I want to be like them
I don’t wan to write about roses if I’ve never felt the
thorns
I don’t want to write about rainbows if I’ve never been
in the storms
I want my words and actions to produce life, creeds,
scriptures, and movements in every form
I want to produce futures for every black man that’s hung
Every slave song that’s sung
Every baby that’s born
Every child that’s wronged
The world is just going to have to mourn
Because this is my last poem
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