-for james byrd, amerikan hero
it was england where i first read about you.
sable fleshbits, detached knees,
blowing across the highway to nowhere
like any ol' tumbleweed. the fruits of self-hate
ushered in your fate. those two krakas
looked right in the mirror, marveled
at your deferred ideal.
truth must reveal: it was theirs, too.
rain can't appear this morning,
it wrestles with new concepts,
alternatives to temporal martyrdom.
why does real change always demand
bodies shattered, minds jolted,
the torture chamber or the electric chair,
a back-stabbing comrade,
or some assassin's crosshair?
unjustice is violent, while the masses stay silent
the new world order
has a third reich odor.
the guardian savors our latest casualty,
seizes the meat of our perennial failure
to bridge the gap. in the unlit backyard,
shades of rioting brixton, roving
national front piranhas, the luckless ghost
of stephen lawrence. we really don't need
a lecture on housecleaning
from the architects
of the past four hundred years.
so just what ticked you, james, what rang
those eager bells? pulled pork on a sunday,
sauced with blues riffs
and your lover's embrace?
pull up yo chair, sit fo awhile,
we's bout ta figgah out sometin.
i'd raise ya back up, scrubrush lazarus,
from the muck of broken time
call you his,
hers,
most of all, mine.
