We’re so evolved kids

I crawled cradled into a hole,
a little one next to Mrs. Ples.
There I laid my head down
on our grandmother’s breast.
There it was I cried
the where’s, the what’s, the who’s, the why’s.
Do we hurt each other so
like siblings do, me and you?
You pull each other’s hair, she said
To bash the other on the concrete,
the street, to claim the game’s victory.
But the game’s gone
too far, much much too far.
You’ve forgotten what a cop, what a robber is.
To hide (away) and to seek (refuge)
playing on the streets.
She’d hit us, she said
if she had had the strength.
You hate too much and care too little
So the game my dear
isn’t worth its prize.
It isn’t fun anymore,
it hasn’t been
since even before my time.

America is my Daddy

America, old and erected
pierces the skies
over New York.
From his towers
he cries out orders
and sets the standards
for ruling suburbia.
He gives me the dollar
for new toys from China
and stamped on my forehead
is where I’m from
and I’m not his son.
I’m not his favourite,
he turns his back
while I eat cold soup
from a Campbell’s can.
I try to talk to him,
my voice is squashed
under the darkness of Africa.
I reach out to America,
because he has stardom,
golden gods and goddesses
of the silver screen.
I breathe in his smoke
when he grabs his lover’s ass
before he leaves
for his work in the machine.

Daddy don’t leave me,
Daddy listen to me.

He came, he conquered,
he fathered the world.
Master of the house,
his house of whiteness
and discipline and order.
He likes it in missionary,
His missionaries invade
and take gold, diamonds and gods
for his mistress.
He thought I never saw,
distracting me with new toys
and things that sparkle
like Hollywood’s stars.
Those new age storytellers
liars and tricksters, his fools.
My Daddy is cheap,
I heard he steals
and bullies
I heard he doesn’t love me
and he never will.

 

 

Trees and Concrete

I think they’ll call me
Heretic, or call me when
they secretly want my bed.
I don’t lay with corporations,
conglomerations, companies
that cut our lives
into scheduled shreds.

Put us in plastic, cubicles,
Let our roots grow into
Cold dead carpets
that don’t show the stains
of our slow-rot.

Some soar from rooftops
Like eagles of freedom,
America is bald.
Old, white and phallic,
men and towers.

We have chained,
To trees yes, but mostly
White fences and TV screens.
Bonded to a minted crucible.

Where our lives are,
Melted and pressed
Into numbers and cents,
Senseless and mute we are.

Marched into done-up buttons
closed brief cases
into nooses daily around necks.
Hung as our hope flickers
Like corpse coloured fluorescent tubes.

Resigned to a life of getting
by and told to buy
to escape the getting by. Escape
into dreams, fantasies,
in books and movies.
Into brand new TV’s,
showing same old stories,
we bought it yesterday to
escape today.

Cry out, muted eagles.
Croak ravens of nihilism,
clipped wings, blinds
of indifference and distraction.

Soar, to the sky
where the sun blazes.
Twice burns in purifying pyre.
See beauty, see revolution.
See the Bastille burn again.
See the rise of souls
out of soot and factory smoke
And into dawn,
birdsung from tree tops.