Little Black Boys

I caress the battle scars of your open city,
Empty faces now concrete,
People nursing little disgusts,
Little sicknesses, little envies.
People forcing God to fart this way,
People doing yesterday things in tomorrow ways.
But I finger your depressions well,
The stretch marks of your open city,
I know where they be.
Her moist legs spread apart,
Little black boys go in and never return,
I see the places where she went to battle for you,
Swallowed perfect families for you,
Sliced black mothers from good black sons,
Turned the eyes of black father’s to untried black daughters.
And yet I still manage to find in there,
In the battle scars of your open city,
Toilers in salt mines,
Forever slaves,
Victims of this fine America,
Broken veterans kissing dog-tags,
White cops hanging on to life,
I see peddlers of loose cigarette and single stories,
I see huge men taking fear badly,
I see oily women taking death well,
I see sunset daughters twice beaten,
I see bad poets and dead writers,
I see blood knuckles raised for war.
You will never kneel to poise or reason,
Blackman, Whiteman, Pink man, No man,
Burger flippers, bedpan pushers, one percenters, Hollywooders,
This unspoiled Union is a carnival in final call, you see.
A fifty pence slice for the best damn show on earth,
America is not now the 9th cloud of heaven,
Nor was she ever that legendary Hades,
There are no horns, no haloes now,
She’s been here and there,
And everywhere else,
Little black boys can you hear me down there?

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