The following was NOT written by me. This is a poem from a good comrade and friend, Mr Stewart Shaw (a powerful queer Black Oakland poet) This is in honor of Trayvon Martin and all other victims of the Maafa.
It seems that bullets really do have names written on them-
names of black boys nosing ahead just a tad
trying to smell their manhood
lick it off their top lips as they talk
to a girl who laughs at their jokes
boys who don’t know that the dark
they carry around like a badge can frighten; scare
grown men so bad they see coons and jigaboos
in every shadow
boys who think they can taste the rainbow
carry the hope of it in their hands to light their way
believes that sweet tea makes life go down easier, think
The Song of The South is just a frolicsome
Disney ditty, not the unfettered wail
uttered from their ripening throats
just before they realize hate lives, right before
the shattering shot.
They will never know the tune is also the cry
of mothers and fathers for sons who didn’t know
the walk back home from the marketplace with goodies
is sometimes a death march.
- Stewart Shaw