Never Catch Me 9781638340553, 1638340552

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PRAISE FOR DARIUS SIMPSON “Following in the footsteps of the earth-shaking Revolutionary writings of the ‘60s and ‘70s, Never Catch Me is at once a book of dynamic poetry, brutally honest self-reflection, and a call to consistent Revolutionary action. Simpson combines a dynamic ability to manipulate language with humor, sarcasm, suspense and transparency to create this bold and necessary work. This book requires readers to reflect on who we are, who we are not, and who we wish to become in the fight towards liberation of all oppressed peoples. This is a damn good book that students, educators, long time lovers of poetry and those new to the craft will return to again and again.” —Imani Cezanne, 2020 Woman of the World Poetry Slam Champion

“Never Catch Me belongs in the throat of every megaphone, each line, an anthem; a heart-crafted survival map; an elegy; a timely call to action finessed with acute wordplay. To be Black and alive with this brilliant collection of poems in hand is a gentle reminder that ‘...my people make outfit accessories outta silver lining.’ Simpson’s work is boisterous, urgent, and unintentionally holy.” —Janae Johnson, author of Lessons on Being Tenderheaded

“In these pages, a two-step is a righteous rhythm bucking against the one & three count of the illegitimate state. Here, love is both a war drum and unclenched scraped knuckles. Not only do the poems in Never Catch Me chronicle, but they’re an urgent call to action. For what is a revolution without dancing? Here is the cadence, a reverent masterpiece!” —Daniel B. Summerhill, author of Divine, Divine, Divine &

Mausoleum of Flowers

“Never Catch Me is a family reunion with the cousins you like best. It’s a road trip with beloved friends and the best playlist. The poems are thicc and rich with music. It’s an affirmation, an invitation to fall in love with ourselves through a kind and generous mirror. It’s double claps at church as a manifestation toward freedom.” —Suzi Q. Smith, author of A Gospel of Bones &

Poems for the End of the World

“Darius Simpson’s Never Catch Me is a healing manual. His use of figurative language surprises the reader, with radical story equations summing up to daring outcomes. Silently drawing you into his word-work, Simpson unveils an arsenal of point-blank realities that say we ain’t givin’ up shyt for nobody!” —Tureeda Mikell, author of Synchronicity: Oracle of Sun Medicine

“Never Catch Me doesn’t need us to simply bear witness, but instead wields a consciousness and necessity to join the fight. It summons us to acknowledge what it means to be a revolutionary and dares us to hold his language. We’re reminded that we all have a shared responsibility to this call; a shared task to steady our aims back at our common enemy, who holds the Black body as the physical site and location under their scope.” —mimi tempestt, author of the monumental misrememberings

“Never Catch Me is every word for revolution that revolution never thought to use for itself. Line after line, defying language expectation as resistance, Simpson wraps us in a sculpture of Black celebration, pain, joy, struggle, and liberation. If there is a single word to describe the power of Simpson’s voice, the English language hasn’t found it yet.” —Landon Smith, author of No Bedtime Stories of Soil

NEVER CATCH ME

Never Catch Me Poems By

Darius Simpson

Button Publishing Inc. Minneapolis 2022

© 2022 by Darius Simpson

Published by Button Poetry / Exploding Pinecone Press Minneapolis, MN 55403  |  http://www.buttonpoetry.com

All Rights Reserved Manufactured in the United States of America Cover design: Amy Law ISBN 978-­1-­63834-­048-­5 26 25 24 23 22

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for my people.

CONTENTS I. 1

We Don’t Die

2

Seventy-­T wo Hours

4

Yea I Did It

5

Perhaps We Are Our Ancestors’ Wildest Dreams

6 11:05 on a Saturday Night and the Dancefloor Is Calling Me by

My Government Name 8

I Don’t Know What Y’all Came to Do

9

In Detroit a Cluster of Black Folks Is Called a Hustle

11

And It Don’t Stop

13 Tiran 15

Ma’am I’m Sorry to Tell You Your Son Is D—­

16 Word Bank or My Mother’s First Words Upon Realizing I Am

Not Asleep in My Bed 17

Word Problems

18

Impact: A Run-­On Question

19 If I’m Caught Between A Badge and A Hard Place Three

Hours after the Street Lights Turn On 20 On a Day I Pass Another 100-­Year-­Old White Man A Black

Man Is Pronounced Dead at 54 21

Last Call

23

I Think Heaven Is Actually Right Here Stevie

II. 27

How We Survive the End

29

What Don’t Kill You

30

Pleading with Scraped Knuckles

32

I Left the Church in Search of God

34 Ekphrasis of the Black Boy Being Dunked On in Front of a

Confederate Statue 37

Ode to Powerline

38

Dreamgirls Soundtrack Track 5

40 Loaded 41 Cain 42

What Is There to Do in Akron, OH?

43 Shatter 44

Said the Mirror to Its Reflection

45

Black & Mild

47

My Older Brother Apologizes

49

Early 2000’s Fashion Was A Confusing Time for All of Us

III. 53

Glossary of Terms

56

Etymology of “Fuck 12”

57

10:33 Outside Your Local Precinct

58

Worksheet #1

59

What We Doin Here?

60

The Role of the Artist

61

A Poem in Which We Shoot Back

63 In a Past Life I Was Choked by a Pig and All My Neighbors

Watched It Happen Instead of Jumping in 65

The Most Important Ballot of Our Lifetime Again

66

Capitol Capital

67

This Last Election Was a Riot

68

Irrefutable Proof I Knew the President Personally

69

Up Above My Head

70

Ok So Maybe the Rally Won’t Get Us Free

71

A Million Men March into a Wildfire

72

Stop the Violence!

73

You Know He Shot at the Police Right?

75 Nonprofit Equity Statement Walks Into a Summer 2020

Writing Workshop 77

There’s Fires to Start

78

Untitled (For Lack of Free Time)

79

Worksheet #2

80

I Live Just East of a Contradiction

82

Objective Facts

89 Resources 92

Notes/Previously Published

95 Acknowledgements 99

About the Author

I. “there is no revolution without love. and there is no love without revolution. if you do not believe in my liberation, you do not love me. if you do not work towards my liberation, you do not love me.” —MEL OLUGBALA, AGAPE MVMT

WE DON’T DIE we second line trumpet-­groove through gridlocked streets. we home-­go in charcoal black Cadillacs stretching around corners. we wake up sharp in Sunday best. stiff but beaming. we move the sky. we escape route star-­shine. we crescent moon conspiracy. we come alive in the closed palms of midnight. we electrify. we past due bill but full belly. we fridge empty. we pocket lint payments. we make ends into extensions. we multiply. we claim cousins as protection. we soandso plus n’em. we extend family to belong to someone. we siblings cuz we gotta be. we chicken fry. we greased kitchen. we hog neck greens. we recipes scraped together from scraps. we prophecy. we told you so even if we never told you nothin. we omniscient except with our own business. we swallow nation’s anthems and spit ‘em out sweet. make ‘em sound like red velvet ain’t just chocolate wit a lil dye in it. we bend lies. we amplify. we laugh so hard it hurts. we hurt so quiet we dance. we stay fly. we float on tracks. we glide across linoleum. we make it look like butter. we melt like candle wax in the warmth of Saturday night liquor sweat. we don’t die. we dust that colonies couldn’t settle. we saltwater city built from runaway skeletons. we organize. we Oakland in ‘66. we Attica in ‘71. we Ferguson before and after the camera crews. we bow but don’t break. we break but don’t crumble. we won’t die we won’t die we won’t die we won’t die we won’t die we won’t

1

SEVENTY-­TWO HOURS after we’ve confirmed the rumors, one of my students interrupts morning check-­ins to explain that the rapper, who we are sure is buried by now, is actually still alive. said nah. he posted last night that it was a prank with Tupac conspiracy conviction. said the rapper shook brittle casket-­earth from around wormbitten shoulders. orange prescription bottle full of dandelion seeds holstered like a pistol hairline replaced by a crown of canary diamonds Cuban links. scalp nestled with bundles of copper. and he did not knock on his mother’s door or approach the hotboxed windshield of the boys who carried him to his unfinal rest or check into a hospital to verify his heart was in fact producing original music. instead, this lukewarm blooded boy scrambled for the nearest cell phone to send a tweet that only this student was paying close enough attention to catch. you thought he wasn’t gon remix his own life?! ha ha. thought he wasn’t god of comebacks?! ha ha. he never left. ha ha. maybe my brother didn’t leave either ha. it was all a joke, right? he looked to me for confirmation of this truth that is only true in the calloused palms of architects creative enough to observe a blank page and see open earth or unsculpted clay or a distant town where black boys don’t have to expire or kill to become headlines / halo-­worthy / hallowed soil worth saving. a world where Mike does his time in jail and comes home without a pine box where bullets fly straight through my uncle without tearing flesh. where diabetes is not an anchor in Brandon’s bloodstream. where Tiran is ended in one instant and dancing on a

2

table in the next. i think this student was tryna convince me Jesus was a mud-­brown child on earth once who didn’t know how to leave the party. i think he was asking for a fabled existence where Black boys live past thirty-­three on weekends. me, being halfway holy as i am, i do not push the final nail in this voice wedged between the lid lips of a Black boy’s coffin. i do not stifle the belief that death is a hoax you might just escape if someone, somewhere, around 9:00 AM on a Tuesday is brave enough to say your name three times in a writing prompt. i do not crush the boy looking to me to corroborate this story that is absolutely false. so he might go down in yearbook history as the necromancer that saved hip hop. i do not demand he fold the rapper’s name neatly into the back of his throat because in sixth grade Mr. Suber passed me a copy of Usher’s Confessions album and told me i had wings. and i believed him. and sometimes i still do. standardized school almost tested the poet out of me. now i wrestle impossible before class starts. as timed free writes end i quiet the music. students know this means soon aluminum doors will yield correctional ink and graded obedience but in here all you need is a piece of paper, a pencil, and the confidence to say that shit with ya chest and *voila* the funeral was a practical joke / we laughed so hard we died.

3

YEA I DID IT swallowed the box of cigarillos//vomited loose cigarettes on the sidewalk//sold the case of CDs//sat motionless in 4:00 AM couch drool//spread arms face-­down in backyard dirt surrendering//told them i didn’t do it//told them i couldn’t breathe//told them i couldn’t resist if i wanted to//hands//ankles//breath shackled//both wrists locked behind my head//throat//back i reached for the pistol. pulled a round-­nose bullet from backseat thin air. slaughtered myself while hogtied. . i was Houdini. now i’m that butter knife on my waist was actually a samurai sword i was a samurai. i was reaching for the zipper at the top of my spine. i was gettin ready to unwrap layers of costume skin. reveal green patchworks of scaled flesh. ash-­breath lungs Hulk-­like demon blossoming on all of me. even behind the pointed ears. he lucky he shot//choked//tazed first cuz i was bout to snap my neck open. see i got this ill superpower. where i can transform into a lie before it’s told. he musta known that. that’s why i’m a mess on the cement now. this cop cried wolf. got me instead. he manufacturing lies from dust while my last breath spin-­whistles its way to the ground.

4

i overheard him saying he had to do it. and he was right. if not for the gun//headlock//car smash i woulda fully developed horse limbs//bat winged shoulder blades//grenade pins instead of teeth//poison tipped lion tail curling in the wind. but he got the drop on me so now i’m lying there half shape shifted. lookin almost as weapon as he said i was lookin almost fairy tale enough to make it home. pupils fluttering against closed eyelid canvas my hardly lived life splattered crimson my jaw blown off its hinges in front of me. look like i was bout to say somethin. but an explosion took the mouth right out my mouth half the boy i was spilling onto a missed call screen drowning in puddles of me scattered on the blacktop.

PERHAPS WE ARE OUR ANCESTORS’ WILDEST DREAMS Or liberation was bludgeoned by reforms and fell off picket signs maybe wildest dreams tripped on a pile of chain-­linked orange jumpsuits then fell down by the riverside. waded in forehead-­height water but couldn’t swim maybe capitalists are ravenous beasts with recyclable diets for the wrong skin all parts of humanity turn plastic maybe as long as there are cages there will be stomachs to feed off of them. Or we were en route to another planet but fell off the back of the bus and every decade we invent a dance / a new language to conspire for our escape back home Or amerikkka should be in our stomachs maybe we was the flood God sent that didn’t finish its plate maybe Denmark Vesey had a solid blueprint after all maybe civil rights is a toy carrot dangling in front of a rabbit Or the sky called and wants its children back but Earth is a selfish tantrum holding on to things that don’t belong to it Or we just out here tryna function maybe Black excellence is white supremacy’s baby cousin maybe excellence is the unstained white collar on my father’s favorite blazer after a night of two steps and endless scotch refills maybe $10 before 11:00 is the closest thing we got to a revolution tonight perhaps the neon gold glisten off a rope chain is a rebellion Or it’s just a wonder we survive the genocide.

5

11:05 ON A SATURDAY NIGHT AND THE DANCEFLOOR IS CALLING ME BY MY GOVERNMENT NAME bring me your weekend’s best don’t come as you are come fly as shit or not at all bring that hesitant step and stutter grind awkward gun-­click walk offer me your misshapen mess shake for me and i will catch all that pours from your bloodshot gaze bring me that broken beating thing offer me the tense of your jaw dust off that heavy burdened wingspan stretch wide enough to be noticed peacock your way into a decent pocket no need to brush feathers with nobody else round here we keep it light as tumbleweed i will catch the holy water you drip until you are wrung clean dry don’t weep for my cracked wood weep for the stiff corners of this stale city i am no god and you are hardly a disciple but we got some miracles to work this evening only if we are both honest about what we’ve come to do disco lights scattering dance partner attention spans smiles slung clean across each other’s faces i give you my torso covered in sticky footprints i give you my back bending against the moonlight’s curves you bring your folded knuckles you bring your chest clinched drop them troubles off of those lumpen shoulders

6

use wisely the weight of what we’ve done exorcise those weekday demons, child next week we will both be new kinds of tragedies in need of another baptism.

7

I DON’T KNOW WHAT Y’ALL CAME TO DO After Toni! Tony! Tone! if the surface area of open floor is greater than empty seats if your sternum feels like a punching bag for the bass if i stretch my throat into rubber and slingshot an ok, DJ! to the stage if it sounds like i’m tryna send the words all the way around the world if my shirt is more ocean than dry land i promise you i did not pay twenty dollars or iron my smile or sharpen my laugh to cut through first-­date silence or stretch during the pregame or tie my hair back with copper wire or put batteries in my calves or wear my good elastic-­thigh pants or unfasten my jaw or swallow liquid gunpowder or spit kerosene through my nostrils or nearly choke to death inhaling backseat secondhand smog or stumble onto a cherry wood floor that’s been calling my name since Monday morning just to come stand in a corner round here i only speak in footwork sequences i’m a Dru Hill ad lib bouncing through a crowded front row i’m a drunk cousin at a basement party when the beat drops i come to shake the cobwebs off these squeaky knees i come cuz i got a thick bone needs pickin or pluckin i come to be a sacrifice / saltwater savior / dutty whine deity i come to bend my back until the roof catches on actual fire then i’ma bend my back some more–but shirtless i come to sweat until my button down is damn near see through until i am damn near see through i come to disappear just to make a more theatric entrance on the next song i am not the life of the party but i am known to cut a rug down to the white meat situational electric-­fire type get down every now and then i spark real hard in one direction and leave a trail of shaking bodies in my wake 8

IN DETROIT A CLUSTER OF BLACK FOLKS IS CALLED A HUSTLE surprisingly enough it ain’t the two to the right or the two to the left that fucks people up. it’s the spin. smooth swivel foot shuffle turn morning dew into glitter. trick is you gotta remember to always end counterclockwise from where you started. mind which direction your big toe is pointed. it’s all in the hips. all about how well you snake through small gaps. Black movement is navigation. the North Star is whoever hit the loudest ayyyeee!! after the ceremonious beat dropped. follow the tallest pointer finger toward freedom. start movin on the split second before the first syllable. best to not put ya own sauce on it till you got the recipe down. careful cuz if you pivot when you supposed to turn you’ll open a portal to a universe with no seasoning salt or summon a drunken coalition of judgmental aunties to witness your ancestral disgrace or you’ll just flat out tangle the feet of whoever steppin behind you. huslin is an exercise in trust. when i move you move. this here takes precision. takes patience. can’t go pluggin random steps in. like frayed wires this shit is dangerous. this shit is rebellious but still got its rules. like a riot. like it’s 2:45 AM outside Oakland County jail. where a judge authorized the detention of a fifteen-­year-­old Black girl for not completing her homework. and seriously fifteen seconds ago Emmy and Majae were snoring but now by the power of Midwest obligation 9

to jig to jit to stunt to stand at the front. here they are still wrapped in blankets and leading us in procession. as one song blends into the asphalt they call out the next line dance by name and you got about thirty seconds to catch up or to admit you just don’t know this one. ain’t no such thing as sittin one out. catch your breath then catch the next upbeat or don’t even say you was out here with us. someone will always peel from the crowd to catch you but you gotta be vocal about your needs. so we know when you’ve left and when you’ve been captured. gotta remember we are always escaping. lest you trail from the pack into the cold arms of prison industry and we won’t know which direction to send the search party.

10

AND IT DON’T STOP Stevie Wonder’s harmonica drips//slow honey out of the boombox// layers of sweetgold spillin over aluminum pots//between the simmer-­ pop of canola oil//backyard full of grape Kool-­Aid grins with drumstick bones for teeth//sucked clean//full lips licked moist by Midwest July air//brown skin battered with Vaseline//deep-­fried in sunlight//rainbow plastic barrettes percussing against the slick shine of Blue Magic grease//inside the spinning nucleus of blurred jump ropes//tiny relentless stomps beating a familiar song into asphalt chalk//tender rib meat pressed against every other mouth//a protective mask //cigarillo smoke dribbling thick off the bottom lip of all men in attendance over fifty//plastic tip if ya old school// wood tip if ya fancy //wine-­flavored if you lookin for a plus one to disappear the night with//at all times red Solo Cup-­palms are itchin for a dance partner//itchin for a melody that curls hip bones into a question about the space around them//at all times there is a fold-­out card table huddled with hunched backs//grownfolk slappin somethin white and black against the tabletop//might be bones//might be spades//might be dice//at all times notyourchild is asking you for a bite of something you did not cook//and ya grandmother is bent over a lit stovetop performing surgery//and ya auntie is takin notes by the sink for her apprenticeship//and ya other auntie is patrollin the yard//passin out water//so no one blacks out//or throws a punch//at least not until the kids get their plates//and ya big cousin is in a car down the street//breaking down a whole forest worth of green//and this is the scene//for the 112th day in a row//four months ago a bad excuse for an imperialist said national emergency//after unnecessary fatalities increased// some folks recognize negligence by how many times a president blinks during a speech//some homes never floated again after hurricane season//some of us learned the language of genocide as government assistance//offered posthumously//naturally we// survivors of the flood//decide if we gon’ die//shit we might as well dance//and it started in a backyard on the east side//with the jingle

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of a chrome-­chain collar around a rottweiler’s neck//sounded like a Maze and Frankie Beverley cover//and it spread to all the houses on one block until the whole neighborhood burst into a coordinated line shuffle stretching through liquor store intersections and up the side of telephone poles and on the top layer of pool water and pool tables and it was a virus spread from one hood to the next niggas of all hair lengths and skin types two-­steppin in unison to the tune of another Armageddon that swears it won’t discriminate like the last one so we fix it a Styrofoam to-­go plate equipped with two protective layers of foil and a slice of poundcake individually wrapped in plastic and soon you can’t tell the difference between the last song at one cookout or the first song at the next which makes yesterday fade to remnants of white quarantine tents and military attacks on poverty and failed health care and look it’s not that pandemic don’t sound like serious business but we tried goin out in prayer and in protest and in front lawns and on balconies and if this might be a repeat of our last failed rebellion let the bass be so loud we can’t hear the bodies drop.

12

TIRAN you were crisp shirt collars and gold accents you were literal belief in dragons you were cat-­paw precision you were jokes inside of inside jokes inside of secrets you were 1:30 AM drunken decisions you were an ear to pour into you were never far from a meal plan you were a couch to the roofless you are home you were a big brother you were proof that no fact is useless you are loved you were passenger seat invitations you were all-­white Cadillac clean you shut the scene down without effort you were a last-­minute ride to work you were all the rides to all the works you were a rockstar you were an RA’s worst nightmare you were a filled room you were a tabletop performance you were up to it down to it you were Niggas in Paris playing for the eighth time in a row you were the front banner at a protest you were office hours to the homies you were always studying anatomy of people and rooms you are loved you were Mister EMU you will be missed you were a beer pong instructor you were knuckles when needed you were a hand in everybody fridge you were a first-­time and never-­again spades partner

13

you were a grudge-­holding champion you were after-­hour pool shenanigans you were all nights you are resting you were on our nerves like clockwork you were fly as fuck you were a place to crash you were a copilot you have wings you were a teammate you were healthy competition you were spotlighted at all times you were a lead singer’s ego gone rogue you were pans of seafood mac-­n-­cheese you were more than enough you were the never too much Luther sang of you were a historian you are history you were an entire party’s hype man you were an entire party you will be celebrated you will be carried you will be crowned you are loved you are loved you are loved you are loved you are loved you are loved you are loved you are loved you are.

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MA’AM I’M SORRY TO TELL YOU YOUR SON IS D—­ dangerously drenched down ditched drumming delivering dizzy devil drunken dye drawing decoration deflated deer dirt doomed dough driftwood driftwood driftwood dancing dandelion dense dummy dripping don’t deposit definitely double didn’t days2 1 2

good at freeze tag, like ghost good in red puddles, but on his way by the gutter river laundry beside the sewer hole water’s-­edge lullabies with his mouth on a curb ripples up stream sawdust scattered in moonlit-­dewgrass horn handsome, should model for caskets squiggle soaking cement staining black tar as we speak graffiti on his stomach with paint from his stomach for this holiday you’ll never forget / never celebrate bounce house blocking traffic shown in headlights mimicking boyhood pinned between the tracks of my tires kneaded into sidewalk cracks floating in molasses spinning in spine sap sinking by the minute seeds stolen from stem by some invisible unforgiving weight in exchange for a shorter shift after a crash test in gold sweat if you come collect him the bank will his remains as a non-­graduation gift strong as he looks tough as steel beams. i threw my car1 at him and he even flinch. matter fact it’s been two and he hasn’t moved any of his limbs

cop cars may be used as a weapon if deemed necessary force. on October 3, 2009 seventeen-­year-­old Victor Steen was murdered while on his bicycle after being tazed and subsequently run over by a police officer in Pensacola, Florida. his mother did not find out her son had been murdered by pigs until almost two days later. 15

WORD BANK OR MY MOTHER’S FIRST WORDS UPON REALIZING I AM NOT ASLEEP IN MY BED Instructions: Use vocabulary terms to fill the blank space between a missed curfew and sunrise. or I’m gon’

He better be coughing up rose stems sandbag counterweight declining whisper full of lead gossip concrete splatter explosion singed resting in pieces traffic company spine wrinkled gutter floating pistol smoked scatter-­boned black bagged splayed open breathless litter skin

him! flatten tackle ground discard capsize flat line bulldoze resurrect axe grind obliterate extinguish electrocute sewer strain flood swallow boa constrict backyard bury

A: the first stage of grief involves conjuring a threat-­spell of protection over your missing child. 16

WORD PROBLEMS at fifteen miles per hour/1,000 pounds is a wagon of 166 bricks running a stoplight is a donkey kicking your entire body is a fully-­stacked bench press free-­falling onto an esophagus is a paid vacation for the driver is no question of if you’ll live, but what fraction of you will be left over after 1,000 pounds/at fifteen miles per hour the boy is sheet metal folded at the feet of a flickering streetlight the boy is blueprints discarded next to unfinished wood and bundled rebar the boy is a tomorrow unraveling in the crosshairs of a public servant the boy is a brownish-­red syrup dripping from a malicious motor the boy is either as child or as grown in the headline as his skin tone dictates against 1,000 pounds/at fifteen miles per hour a seventeen-­year-­old boy is ripped tissue paper a seventeen-­year-­old boy is bubble-­w rap lungs a seventeen-­year-­old boy is not even an hour of paperwork a seventeen-­year-­old boy is what happens when a shadow flirts with freedom at fifteen miles per hour/1,000 pounds is a bullet sent to do a handcuff’s job is move bitch get out the way are you ok is an insult don’t you die on me is an anchor thrown into drowning arms CPR is a bad joke and these seventeen-­year-­old lips can’t even smirk can’t even whisper a question to the officer behind the wheel the eventual gun that fabricates in flattened seventeen-­year-­old hands is clockwork. is calculated. 17

IMPACT: A RUN-­ON QUESTION

18

i wanna tell you about the first time i watched pigs trample him but i’ve already written that funeral and yes my cheeks were flooded stairwells when black and white dash cam footage crushed me cuz i coulda swore his bike was cherry red and so was mine before the paint chipped off before the right foot pedal split off in the speeding mouth of a Toyota Camry and i wanna tell you about the fourth time i watched pigs flatten him but i got hit by a car when i was nine so talkin about accidents makes my foot itch and maybe there’s no accidental way to run through a person like an inconvenient red light or a shortcut and maybe i’m makin up excuses cuz i’ve never been to Pensacola, Florida and the video was still too close to home and i was six houses down from mine when a green sedan bent the fragile spine of my bike backwards into dead curbside grass and i was a five-­minute walk from my apartment when i saw the video or when i watched pigs deflate him for the eighth time and the day i got hit my mother told my siblings to wait for me but i’m the youngest so they left anyway and my loyalty is hard-­headed so i need explicit rejection often chasing behind people that don’t want me around so i darted off after them and he was riding his bike alone that night too and in the video it looked like he had lost someone and the first thing i thought was how much trouble awaited me for the dents in my twisted handlebars and the second thought was if i would be allowed to ride my bike alone again and a Black neighbor sprinted outside and wound her arms around my head like i was hers and i just know that no one hugged him or said he was gonna be ok and what’s a Black boy alone on a bike in the near night anyway huh and what good would it do telling you about how there was no blood but still enough questions to fill a casket and where was i goin with that bike or his name or this grief or an almost elegy and what is an obituary from a stranger anyway?

IF I’M CAUGHT BETWEEN A BADGE AND A HARD PLACE THREE HOURS AFTER THE STREET LIGHTS TURN ON will you church it / will you pass it along pews of almost-­saints until it reaches the whole congregation / will you tithe it / will you stretch it thin like goat skin over the shell of a djembe drum / will you slap it / will you let the echo dance naked in the wet cave of your throat will you bark it / will you sing it/like my mother is listening/will you inhale until your lungs nearly burst then inhale some mo then will you say my name / will you put some stank on it / will you jukejoint James Brown it / will you Jheri curl spray it/how can i rest in peace or power if you get all lazy lipped when you talkin bout me / will you scoop it thick/ will you stir it slow/will you macncheese it/will you mm-­mm-­ mm to spread the savory over your tongue / will you let it marinate will you serve it with Sunday dinner / if you say my name and cast iron skillets don’t start to rattlin / that mean you ain’t say it loud enough will you say it again / if a redwood don’t split open from the trunk that mean you ain’t pronounce it right / will you say it again / will you redecorate this city in streams of fire after me / will you paint downtown a scorching hue / will you stain the sky in black smoke / will you tell ghost stories / over the ashes of this empire / will you scream it / will you stand out in gridlock traffic to let these mufuckas know what kinda boots i wore / will you stomp it into the soil of the last place i laughed / with my whole body / will you dance it/ will you Saturday night praise it / will you tambourine it / will you drunken favoritesong shout it / will you full moon howl / will you shriek/will you chant / will you live / will you cry / for me / will you?

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ON A DAY I PASS ANOTHER 100-­YEAR-­OLD WHITE MAN A BLACK MAN IS PRONOUNCED DEAD AT 54 for Michael K. Williams and i want to say i am tired of this song how we have to forge our own heavens down here how hell come at birth and don’t leave without a fight shit after a while struggling to survive becomes a routine and maybe that’s where we got the jitterbug from who among us ain’t got some demons need shaken loose heard that boy smooth shimmied his way right on into the next plane heard he ain’t miss a beat nor slide nor stride nor step nor breath heard when he got where he was goin he just kept on movin heard the spirits knew him by his well-­oiled joints heard they recognized the twist of his spine heard they was missin the crinkle of his brow heard he’d been there before heard it was his first time here though heard they kept a plate wrapped just for him heard it was so good he took one bite and just kept on dancin.

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LAST CALL i say i need to drink less and tonight is the third night in a row that my left hand is a short glass of whiskey. does that make me a liar or an escape artist. and does it really make a difference on a San Francisco Sunday where the shoreline is coughing up hazmat suits. haze of unclearing throats meandering toward a bluepinkgold pacific backdrop. N95 means more to civilians now than it should. election season means we may not make it to the ballot and perhaps this disaster was man-­made. perhaps if we had emptied more magazines in the right direction there would be less obituaries on the East Side this morning. my therapist, who is neither licensed nor a therapist, speaks fluent empty-­shot-­glass. exchanges horror stories from the workweek across a wooden countertop confessional. asks what you runnin from? i say you right. pour another one and watch me never run anywhere again. either it goes down gasoline or ice water. our session ends with my legs stuttering onto a dancefloor. part wobble but mostly floating toward the sweet spot in the crowd where bent knees begat spiraling backs. where sweat is offered up in praise to the DJ’s intuition. hooked elbow swung around the neck of my new best friend who was a stranger thirty seconds ago. until that one song when the entire venue faded to background noise while we—­gods of salted skin / uncles who inherited the groove from our grandfathers / backyard two-­step practitioners / challenged by what you know bout this?! and trained to kill that shit—­fastened our eyes on the precision of each other’s Poplock. mirrored lean with rock and Harlem Shake with Dougie. one of us cast an ayyyyeee! spell while the other spun the floor into red carpet. twisted the air into a Thanksgiving-­kitchen humid. liquor has a funny way of ironing the wrinkles out of introductions. so three or four hours or shots or bathroom breaks in there we were, bouncing limbs in the middle of no one’s living room. for a split-­second thought we might’ve been immortal. if we just drank enough midnight. but we know what moonlight does to Black functions when the music stops. what uniformed wolves linger

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beyond the overwhelming exchange between bass drum and ear drum. how quickly the end of a song can bleed into a more lasting quiet. happy endings are for white women. glass slippers were invented by white men. glass slippers make for a messy dance floor. make it hard to run from sirens.

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I THINK HEAVEN IS ACTUALLY RIGHT HERE STEVIE “they say that heaven is ten zillion lightyears away” —Stevie Wonder i think there’s angels dying of thirst along the freeway. i think when we pass, God will ask how was it? and we’ll say it was a shit show, what’s next? and we’ll wake up in a delivery room with a to-­do list.

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II. “no Black boys can get too loud in this country, it’s always silenced.” —GEORGIA JACKSON (MOTHER OF JONATHAN AND GEORGE JACKSON)

HOW WE SURVIVE THE END we say who you know? we say who you from? we say who child is you? we say who taught you the swing? we say where you get that accent? we say what you know bout this? we say bruh we say brodie we say brother we say homie we say boss we say bluhd we say big dog we say bruuhhh  we say ma nigga we say maaaaaa nigga we say fam we say boss man  we say hey boo we say did you eat today? we say thats alright baby we say you got this we say come fix you a plate we say its plenty to go round we say how ya momma doin? we say where you been lately? we say the pastor been lookin for you we say don’t go too long without speakin we say we ain’t long for this world we say be safe we say hit me when you make it home we say call me if you need me we say don’t you be too proud to need me

27

we say come on over next week we say bust the grill out  we say i ain’t seen you in a minute we say let me get a good look at ya we say you know you sugar sharp we say alright nah! we say you dipped in dapper we say you lookin mighty fine we say be blessed we say stay alive we say see you next time we say peace we say deuces we say aight yall we say it’s been real we say it’s bout that time we say i’ma slide out we don’t say goodbye we don’t know when we’ll die we just know we’ll see you again

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WHAT DON’T KILL YOU sundown is taking a lot more than what the Earth bargained for last week Mike went to ask the horizon where he got his shoes came back with a pair of fresh ones just in time for the casket last week a cop interrupted a pick-­up game tossed a child all the way up into the rafters we had to take up a collection just to retire the jersey when i ask if you ever forgot to hold your breath on a slow drive past an overcrowded graveyard what i mean is, have you cried for no reason lately when’s the last time you sat down for morning coffee with a Black woman that keeps burying seats at the table Akron is an empty Murray’s wave grease container that hasn’t seen a boy in four days. my people’s children don’t go missing my people birth sidewalk hazards and classroom distractions my people got a short-­distance relationship with the afterlife my people see the Bible’s wrath more often than its promises my people see a flood and can’t afford emergency evacuation my people so good at survival that death had to take a number my people so good at survival the state reinvented its weapons my people raze a plantation and still raise a family my people make outfit accessories out of silver lining proof is in the mouthfuls of gold that woulda made Midas blush proof is in the gospel sung while we lower our kin into soil.

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PLEADING WITH SCRAPED KNUCKLES For Devon when i say i have known Black boys like you / i mean D and J severed our seventh grade class / in two bunches of boy blobs / bending dingy laminated brick corners / elbows snaked around the neck nearest you / chain link-­fence arms / blurring past doorways / scream-­filled classrooms stuttered behind us like chemtrails / we called ourselves gangs / pushed excited punches through gaps in loose fitted clothing / aiming for flesh / aiming to feel / each other / or something / or any proof there was life on those planets spun bronze / coated with amber sweat / we had a hard time letting go of imagination / maybe July never ended / maybe school is just a bad dream / maybe this playfight is our least-­v iolent display of boyhood / forearms swelled with grass-­stain scar tissue / dim fluorescents flickering against forehead glisten / skippin class to play tag / wanting to be it because being it means you get a chance to conquer / wanting to be captured because captured meant being held / hallway headlocks / sidewalk shadowboxes / never how are you / always square up / dirt-­patch football field where we exchanged touch without detention / or being called the sin beyond repentance / or being asked a flurry of questions about which box we’d break our bones to fit inside of / we were forbidden / enchanted children / forests of nappied afros in full frolic / racing along grimy tiles in hopes to crash / straight through each other’s barely-­bone frames / careful not to clip the jaw of the opposing squad / cuz T brother really / bang / used to explode at least once a week / until Miss Parker split open our lockers like dried swishers / spilled the guts sloppy along the hallway floor / then he got / / and came back with less triggers and no fuse. when i say i know the limits of a fist inside a friendship / i mean i punched Dontell on the playground / just because there were people watching / Dontell never dapped me with both hands again / i mean once i pushed Aaron into a metal pipe cuz he embarrassed me in

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front of his sister / he stopped choosing me for pick-­up games / i mean fighting ain’t the only way / to have someone put hands on you / i mean stop rioting / i mean stop bomb-­ticking / i mean stop detonating / please / there are people / looking to put you out / of class / and your body / and if you don’t stop swinging / they’ll see you / pendulum swaying between the chalkboard and your teacher’s last nerve / walk wide enough to sweep the whole class in one step / belly-­ deep laugh consuming the entire hallway / like smog tumbling out the bottom of a space shuttle / boy snap rubber band quick / cuz his moms got a shotgun throat and a hair-­trigger tongue / boy yells / cuz he need a hug / or a meal / or an open hand / on his shoulder / not a muzzle / not another brick / layered dismissal. when i say i love you / i mean i’m scared for you / not of you / i mean the anniversary of Trayvon’s murder / was only two days ago / ain’t you heard the story / about the lion in the circus / how one day he asked why the whip kept following him / next day they found / what was left of him / in pieces of him / rotting / raw / four hours in Midwest August / ain’t you heard the one about survival / or the slave patrol turned sheriff / or the burnt cross that believed it was doin the lord’s work / or the boy they flayed while the whole town watched. when i say lil bro / i mean silence won’t save you / but it might keep us in the same room a bit longer / i mean point them out / please / whoever it is got you askin / for the kind of trouble that walks into a room before you do / believe me / they have designed elaborately violent methods to cage your mouth / and keep you wired / shut / i’m beggin you / unravel your fists / unknot your shoulders / unclamp your jaw /please / the bell is coming to save you / please / we are still trying to unjail this building / please / if you can / hold on a little while / please / i just met you / and still i need you / alive.

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I LEFT THE CHURCH IN SEARCH OF GOD “your attitude and behavior toward man is a kind of religion.” —Huey P. Newton my momma is all knuckle no talk. hails from northside Akron front yard fights on Carlysle. once almost dragged a lady into the Aldi’s parkin lot over ten cents. my mother is hard-­handed. soft-­hearted when it pays or keeps her children outta harms way. she says you are too smart to protest with fists unclenched. her voice stumbles soft and clumsy through the phone. i am the youngest of three. her last dime saved. when she pleads stay home boy i understand she’s frightened by memories of her baby nursing his wrists scraped bloody by zip ties. or being taken for a rough ride in a city she’s never heard of. she knows i’m quick to anger and means to uncurl my reactionary fits. before a pig decides my pulsing neck vein is a concealed weapon. my mother is a devout christian. all the church regulars know Bobbi best by ad libs. heard the tales of how her amen! her come on Pastor! her take ya time! once inspired a bishop to keep us in service for two days straight. she made sure i could recite books of the bible in my sleep hanging upside down. the first time i’m arrested

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at a protest she says my brain is better used in service of the lord’s work. she believes my voice is most effective as a sanctuary echo. i wanna tell her about the morning i survived an armored truck big as a chapel plowing through a residential neighborhood. i know God is real because once after curfew i was cornered by a squad of headlights and i grew wings. flapped once and feathered home. she says her biggest regret is not being the kind of person who protests. and i wanna tell her how i scan the crowd for the loudest person in attendance. and i always find my mother in the front row swaying near the megaphone. a sacred pulpit. where a Black woman who smiles just like her who screams holy with her diaphragm turned skyward. how it feels like praise and politics. how we sing no justice! and it sounds like Sunday mourning. i want to ask what good is the lord’s work if not demanding a piece of heaven on Earth for all her children. what use is my salvation if i can’t pray with my feet first. if i won’t stand ten toes against military cowardice. if i won’t risk whatever life i got left. if she could see us dance in the intersection we gon be alright electrifying each breath while we pass half empty water bottles like communion. arms woven like a thorn crown. guilty and ready to face the executioners. i think she’d bow her head. say praise God. thankful i found my church home.

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EKPHRASIS OF THE BLACK BOY BEING DUNKED ON IN FRONT OF A CONFEDERATE STATUE After Scott Elmquist rumor has it that boy showed up with moon boots and a homemade jetpack held together by duct tape. heard he pulled a purple satin durag out his gym bag. skipped right on over callin for a pickup game and asked who want it? wit’ a straight face. and before you could even consider everyone else had receded like low tide. left you out to dry. a clear stretch of land in front of this ol’ NASA-­certified space cadet-­ass nigga. and i know it wouldn’ta went down this way if somebody told you folks was bringin flight gear to ball games. rumor has it his eyes flared like tiny suns when he summoned you to halfcourt by name. heard he looked you up and down so vicious your laces caught fire. heard even your gray Nike shorts was like nah, just don’t do it. heard it was too late though. he’d already jumped straight up past the light dusting of clouds overhead without bending his knees or a running start. fully extended his left elbow up into a dark pocket of blue sky. picked out a star effortless like a handful of lint. brought back down this burning sphere of gas and white light then said check ball. heard you nearly singed ya eyebrows off when you threw the intergalactic rock back to him. //

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rumor has it this was not the first time he’d dunked on you that day. i feel for you bro. i got bad news and terrible news. bad news is this is not the worst thing that will ever happen to you. terrible news is he will still never let you forget this moment long as you both breathe. any embarrassment during a one-­on-­one might as well be a tattoo or a poster you staple to your forehead. i learned to talk a good game from the sidelines. to ask who got next but never volunteer. this has only failed me once. i was twelve and arrogant. watchin a driveway court game of older boys from my neighborhood. half-­cheering mostly talkin shit and playin pretend ref when Melvin turned toward me mid-­sprint and hocked a loogie on my right cheek. and it felt like a thousand slugs were racing along my sideburn or my head was melting from the humidity. he said it was an accident. but i think Melvin is the name for someone who does shit like that on purpose. and that night i washed my face with damn near everything except bleach. i still flinch when i sweat too much because i’m afraid Melvin has found me and wants to finish what he started. there are worse things than gettin dunked on on a makeshift court. //

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rumor has it the backboard is not kind to boys who talk a good game until it’s gametime. i tried out for the freshman team without a lick of basketball experience. what I learned is you can pretty much bullshit your way out of anything except a layup. It’s all fun and games until it’s just you and the rim and the whole town frozen in time waiting to see what kind of immortal or king or laughingstock you’ll become when your feet touch the ground again. you don’t know winter sadness until all your friends are called back for tryouts and you have to find something else to do during the coldest season of the year.

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ODE TO POWERLINE “if you’re ever lonelayyyy, stop, you don’t have to be.” —Powerline

you, thrust open leather vest glisten chest in the desert you, both knee beggin in silver pants plus rain you, break a lover wide to see what lyrics may flow chorus basically a moan stretched out the measure of a messy long distance relationship run its course and the reason i know Max was a Black boy and you was the first star he seen sparkle his hue VHS says fiction but i recognize them shoulders descendent of moonwalk-­glitter-­glove solos i know a bad mufucka by how the spotlight don’t even add much to the performance i know Jodeci’s lost member when i see it Sisqo’s inspiration for Afrofuturist aesthetic heard it’s a planet out there missin a spades partner heard it’s a sunrise somewhere waitin to go down you the one who taught me if you love someone you better get on stage and make em feel like the only person in a packed auditorium like the last scoop of warm peach cobbler another Black superhero with another electric superpower / the jig is up

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DREAMGIRLS SOUNDTRACK TRACK 5 After Effie White if i told you what my mother escaped you would not believe me and she would be no freer for it. she been a good gracious god. tucked all her divinity inside a wedding ring to keep her children under one roof. lettin go of a marriage you’ve outgrown is exfoliation. snakes unwrap themselves to remove parasites or flesh they have no use for. the first morning in her new skin a clean house. my mother rose as tiger. rose mahogany draped in feathers. rose phoenix from piles of broken plaster. rose first sunlight speckles over wrinkles of snow-­covered earth. rose from a wooden bed frame crucifixion. rose sick of his shit. gold emanating from navel stretch lines. said forget you! and the force from bottom lip folded f-­f-­f shattered a mirror inside the ottoman. ruin is the relic of a man whose name we no longer speak. she’s known destruction for eighteen years. this time everything will fracture except for her. she sashays past a bedroom door yanked off its hinges. boulder pushed away from its tomb. call this the start of a new religion. oh holy be the maiden name on the tongue of a liberated woman. oh blessed is this carpenter knelt in the foyer changing the front door locks so that she might praise in peace. Dreamgirls soundtrack traipses softly out of the stereo while she—­ the whole tenor section / center stage in the final round of a talent competition / main stage at a festival thrown in her own honor—­ sings about her perfect man. and i imagine right then Perfect Man bursts into the house during the bridge. while Jennifer

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Hudson plays background vocals to my mother’s solo. Perfect Man rolls in on cue. all grin of glazed ivory. all glossy black dancin shoes creased at the toe. no stranger to the getdown. all glowin red suit loud as a siren. gift bag big as a two-­car garage brimming with chocolate covered peanuts for all the Valentine’s days he missed. Perfect Man with palms of tan chiffon silk. fingers with no knuckles. he could not make a fist if he wanted to. he bursts through the door. same door that her ex was police-­ escorted out of just last night. Perfect Man struts in without knocking. bearing a truckload of tiger lilies. floats past shattered plates to meet my mother’s barely-­human glide. without missing a step they twirl into a cinnamon-­colored blur in our living room. through a tornado of dizzying laughter she warns that her soon-­ to-­be ex-­husband will stop paying the mortgage. but Perfect Man says he has already built her a small city. he invites her to a world where nothing breaks. eternal nights of sweaty dancing in her new metropolis. on her way out, my god. my weightless beam of joy catches her reflection in a cracked window—­whispers i love you, i do.

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LOADED my father left keys to a cabinet full of heirloom weaponry my brother left two old closets full of empty cheap champagne bottles we get together only to take fancy shots with or at ourselves

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CAIN my brother’s keeper? at best i am, biologically, my brother’s brother. twenty-­some-­years ago i was born into a club he was already a member of. we were kid-­roommates in a carpeted Midwest attic Ohio winters arrive late October unannounced with bags and stay through April. my brother—­ice king frost-­bitten product of snow storms—­learned frigid from the four Decembers he endured before me. the day papa promised to give us a TV was the only time my brother intentionally smiled in my direction. since we stopped sharing a room our interactions are all exit strategies. when he left the house at seventeen he did not say goodbye. i did not go running after him. one night i hope to gather our wrinkled palms around a bottle of whiskey older than us. and trade stories of what we’ve survived. for now the silence is deflating me. birthday texts forget to type themselves. yesterday i had to look at a picture just to describe his appearance in a poem. i’d bet my freedom his best friend couldn’t pick me out in a line up. keeper is a strong word. i’m barely keepin it together when i see my friends smiling in pictures with their brothers. i’m hardly keepin a lid on the fear that my children’s first question will be about their uncle and i will direct them to a photo album with more estimations than pictures. denial is a hell of a blade. Peter turned his back on Jesus three times and it killed him. and they weren’t even related. granted Jesus came back to life shortly after. but we don’t all have fathers with that kind of pull.

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WHAT IS THERE TO DO IN AKRON, OH? complain about the weather. wait five minutes. bury your cousin. watch the boys you grew up with outgrow you. go snow day sledding on the tallest plow-­made mountain in the neighborhood. keep a family warm until their son thaws out of prison. ice skate between the skyscrapers downtown. shovel frigid ideas of manhood out of the driveway. inherit your father’s emergency exit sign. spray paint your best friend’s brother on a t-­shirt. daydream your way through a semester-­long funeral. watch jeans and sleeves and families unravel. play soccer in a public park with the Black boys who almost evaporated with the icicles. kick it outside with the skeletons on your father’s side of the family. go to Columbus and pretend to be a grownup. spend a weekend at an amusement park and call it vacation. go back to your childhood home. leave. shoot dice with the dead boys playing dress up. sit still long enough to become a tourist attraction in a city nobody stops in. mount bikes and ride until the sun dribbles out of the sky’s mouth. wade through the oatmeal that a Midwest July makes of morning air. swim in a public pool where everyone is drowning. stop runnin in and out. unless you got somethin on this gas bill. stay inside. curl up in cold air while the trees sweat. bet the boy down the street who will have the best first day fit. come out amid orange leaves lookin fresher than all the food in a five-­mile radius of Granny’s house. eat jojos from Rizzi’s on Sunday. after Pastor guilt trips you on your way past the pulpit. drink warm Jack Daniel’s from a paper bag until your problems or memory disappear. dream about a city where grief don’t spread like a bad rumor. where headstones don’t show up to dinner unannounced and fried chicken isn’t on speed dial and diabetes isn’t a family heirloom. root for Lebron in whatever color he’s wearing. make varsity. stand on a corner so long you become a street sign. never escape. start a pickup game that never ends. rake leaves with a rusted afro pick your older brother left in his closet. let the leaf bags melt into the chimney on the side of the house. play basketball with the ghosts who don’t know what year it is. volunteer at your local funeral home. open a cemetery across the street from a playground. mow green. cut ties with the neighborhood. 42

SHATTER i text my brother two days ago to see if he was alive and our grandmother responded instead / good news he’s not dead / apparently i am or every morning i break into his apartment while he’s still asleep and pour hot bacon grease on his forehead or i am the reason it rains and the reason he never has an umbrella or i invented paper cuts and he works in a paper folding factory where they can’t wear gloves or take breaks or i paid a wizard to put a spell on his heart and now every time he falls in love with someone they fall in love with me instead and we get married and invite everyone on the planet to the wedding except for him and nine months later we bring a child into this world that shares his nearly black-­brown eyes and we name it after his least-­favorite food / i want to be more specific there but he eats food is the most i can tell you about his diet / my brother is a fighter / with me it’s not swinging hands or playful headlocks / it’s mouth slanted sideways like a barrel spilling acid into an unsuspecting river / it’s land mine conversations / one word out of place then / it’s the deadened glaze over his eyes like he’s staring through a ghost or into a mirror with a haunting resemblance to his childhood / the first time he told me he’d shatter me was during a shoving match with our sister / he didn’t actually say shatter but a fist to the side of the head is worth a thousand hammers / the second time i promised a hug after a year of not seeing him / he promised it would end with a brick / the third time he told me he’d shatter me i melted into a puddle of molten glass before he could elaborate / there are still ashes in my grandmother’s couch from the last time i told him i love you.

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SAID THE MIRROR TO ITS REFLECTION my father never taught me how to fight but together my parents showed me destruction when Jacob called me nigga i saw contracted work gathered elbow grease and curled my fists into tiny wrecking balls soon the red between his lips matched the curtain draping from his nose with mortar and sheetrock between my knuckles, i walked home Pops almost blew a casket through my chest when he saw torn skin what happened?! another day on the job who authorized you for work? the blood in the upstairs bathroom sink no good comes of you using your hands that way! here i am. demolition-­descendent. abandoned and building. that boy told me i ain’t know where i come from so i showed him our family’s secret you said not to but i been watching you wreck since winter 1992 no wonder i’m hard-­hatted no wonder everything i touch disasters no wonder i talk with my hands closed.

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BLACK & MILD no matter what the bank said my auntie always had enough money for the gas station could slick talk her way out the store with more than what she came with my auntie never been to medical school but she a surgeon by all means scalpel fingernail been growin long as she has procedure freak the filter paper out a cancer stick post-­op siphon gutted leaves into plastic wrap crush|crumble|twist| *voila* cancer’s gone. readjust the remains into a wax-­coated cast every vertebra shredded is returned to its place wine flavor rolled and stitched brand new start a fire with her bare hands to suture the wound burn the other end and let the smoke single-­file into her one puff and all that’s left is this familial smell the weight of a sibling half your blood and twice your size haze of ex-­boyfriends bathing in crushed red-­velvet secrets cough of a father losing his diabetes tug-­of-­war crawls out of the side of her lip. windows rolled up tight so no memory can escape the inferno. fire-­breathing vacuum taking no breaks for oxygen of course her words are toxic. you get out what you put in. it’s a wonder the smog hasn’t consumed the road on the other side of the windshield. eyes cut to the rearview mirror to make sure we survive.

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she’s done it again. inhaled whole world from the driver seat. no medals. just this melted plastic tip and the ash trophy case. niece-­nephew audience that can’t even appreciate the athleticism. all this and we still made it home and she made a home in all this still.

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MY OLDER BROTHER APOLOGIZES in the voice of Powerline niggas like me ain’t have much choice from diapers to diplomas all i had was the moves stardom called and i merely picked up the phone so i missed your last football game so i missed your first homecoming so i missed your text last week you turned out alright didn’t you you made it across the country you didn’t die (yet—­did you?) did you ever consider why i left there was demons in that Ohio house they told me i was bookshelf dust i’m out here on the road tryna prove them wrong or myself right or to you that i’m somethin worth lookin up Mom told me you found the mic says you got a way with crowds like me just take more breaks than i did get back to the fans before they notice remember what i told you about emotions if it don’t make a decent hook let it pass on by don’t trip when the stage lights betray you when the audience turns hungry cafeteria when they make a feast out of your failure we all miss a cue eventually just keep on dancing brother another show is all you need backstage you cry it out real good but for the cameras make it theater spin that grief into gold twine

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pretend it ain’t been eleven years since we saw eye-­to-­eye or face-­to-­face or since we danced under the same roof chin up / chest out / shimmy left slide right / spin move / disco point don’t make it easy for the light crew don’t let em catch you rememberin don’t let em catch you slippin don’t let em catch you yearnin don’t let Dad know you still got questions don’t let Mom know you flinch at raised voices don’t let the family know what’s decaying inside you just keep on moving brother catch the choreo smooth / seamless make it look like you ain’t missin / any pieces.

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EARLY 2000’S FASHION WAS A CONFUSING TIME FOR ALL OF US denim FUBU shorts hung low enough to be capris / or part of the hallway tiles / made me a drooping spectacle in Freshmen Study Hall / phone clip wiggled against my hip like a love handle / color-­ coordinated two-­sizes-­too-­wide polo / dangled like a curtain in shower water / in Akron during the early 2000’s there wasn’t much / you couldn’t find as a corner-­store bootleg version / for half the price at my high school it was a sin / punishable by death / to be caught wearing bootleg Air Force 1’s / you could peep the fakes by slight visual inconsistencies / a missing stitch / lopsided soles / loose seams peeking out of random crevices / in a public school district without uniforms / attempting uniformity was both a sure-­fire way to disappear and the only way to survive i come from a bloodline of hand-­me-­downs / we sifted through family closets before buying anything new / in 2007 i copped some bootleg Forces from a corner store / i knew the wages of my sin / and the wages my father was not willing to put towards a brand new pair of shoes when Terry demanded all the boys bring forth their shoes so he could inspect their authenticity / i herd to the front of the class with the other cattle up for slaughter / i am convinced that the jig is up / i am prepared to be just as surprised by my fake shoes as they are / i’ve practiced my surprised face / rehearsed who i would blame for gifting me these abominations just as i fix my mouth to bend a lie between my lips / Ronnell stands on a chair in my defense / chest and pockets swelled by hot air and confidence / white tee so clean fluorescent light is singing against it / all-­white Forces so fly he’s floating / points to my feet / says i swear to GOD I know Air Force 1’s when I see Air Force 1’s and he got on real

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Air Force 1’s / if anybody disagree just see me in the parkin lot after school / while Ronnell delivers the see me outside sermon / i chameleon to the back of the room / grateful i lived to hide another day whole time though / i knew damn well where i got them from / knew just how many steps i had left before the outsoles disappeared into gravel / leaving a rubber grid barely holding the patent leather in place / Nike swoosh poorly painted and peeling away from the sides / like a busted tire / and i would be back at the corner store on Copley Road / trying to barter with empty promises / another forty dollars I didn’t have / bargaining for some with a little more gloss this time / and a matching tee the size of my older brother / to disguise the misshapen slope of the ankle cushion / the missing shoelace hole on the left side of the right shoe / the blood of a local brown family that owned all the corner stores in Ohio / it didn’t matter what you could afford / it only mattered how well you could pretend.

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III. “the Black artist’s role in america is to aid in the destruction of america as he knows it.” —­AMIRI BARAKA

GLOSSARY OF TERMS colonialism contaminated river water bottled for profit and loss of life, or the process by which settlers fashion prison bars out of indigenous languages; war is human; genocide is european. sample sentence: were it not for colonialism, Africa would be slicing its own pie serving the people who live in its house first. see also: Guam, Puerto Rico, Hawai’i imperialism the process by which minding another country’s business inhibits that country’s ability to build generational health; an interference during a game where the loudest bomb sets the rules and refuses to play by them. sample sentence: Africans would have waged more all-­out wars against colonizers, but imperialism made diplomacy a lucrative cover-­up for exploitation. capitalism a system in which there are workers and people who own workers; slavery by any other name still wakes you up at 5:00 AM, drenched in sweat from a nightmare about forgetting to clock in. sample sentence: if you peek behind capitalism’s curtain you see a person—­who is less than 10% a person—­holding a whip shaped like a rental agreement, telling a stage full of longshoremen when to use the bathroom.

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revolutionary someone committed to transforming material reality, who knows freedom is non-­negotiable; a person who’s decided living is worth dying for. see also: Assata Shakur, Sekou Odinga, Jalil Muntaqim sample sentence: you can throw a rock over a prison wall and a revolutionary will throw it back with a poem attached. poet a [potential] revolutionary grappling with capitalist obligations and colonial control of printing presses. sample sentence: liberation is for everybody, and the poet is just one of the many everybodies. see also: June Jordan, Imam Jamil Al-­Amin liberation when a strong wind pretending to be a steam roller meets a people who cannot be flattened; the process by which chains are broken, and the people who owned the chains, and made the chain uniforms, and invested in the stock market of chains, and built the chain-­making factories / must answer for their crimes. sample sentence: liberation called Africa with the americas on three-­way and apartheid survivors started whispering about tapped oil lines, but the call dropped somewhere over a 1989 Atlantic Ocean.

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poem an empty mason jar you fill with lightning bugs to guide the masses, or pennies you collect in exchange for your soul. sample sentence: i submitted this poem to a journal that values diversity but they spent two years deliberating if off the pigs was literal or figurative.

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ETYMOLOGY OF “FUCK 12” bang! is a troublesome way to introduce handcuffs one of us is indeed a squadron of riots unfolding the other is a cityscape choking on tear gas canisters rebellion is the most natural form of self-­defense slave-­catching dressed in uniform is still a first punch Fred Hampton’s front door said you dropped somethin Jonathan Jackson’s afro said we out Assata Shakur’s smile said nothin much improbable cause will shatter your spine in a matter of seconds i tried talking to a brick wall and i have the jail cell scars to prove it your prejudicial bloodlust is off its leash chewing on my sister again ya great-­great granddaddy was a double-­barrel shotgun you sound just like him.

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10:33 OUTSIDE YOUR LOCAL PRECINCT the state got a single action trigger for a tongue the military got an armory sense of humor or white house cartoons collect bonuses based on death tolls war is a lazy euphemism for genocide occupation is a sad song with bootstraps marching to a ceaseless tempo say revolution three times in a dark country you wake up with a face full of closed borders or in a white mouth the wrong word is gun powder or on the right side of state violence gun on the brain makes you target practice while gun in the heart makes you headline-­worthy while gun in hand makes you old news or my parents were God-­ fearing gamblers which makes me two shakes short of good citizenship so don’t ask me if i voted before you ask about this knife between my shoulder blades or the puppet strings on the mayor’s cufflinks or the curly pink tail on the sheriff or bad jokes ending in flat lines and if you listen to the way tear gas hisses you’ll hear pigs laughing.

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WORKSHEET #1 circle the answer that best completes the sentence if you’re allowed to kill what “scares” you, you are a. [really] bad at lying b. trigger hands with a nervous tick c. Bugs Bunny’s arch nemesis d. [really] good at your job e. nothing above ground worth mentioning f. [unhinged] blast of a shotgun g. dead and in denial (e.g. following orders)

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WHAT WE DOIN HERE? i wanted to be a good poet once tossed a handful of haikus at a cop and he laughed my MFA advisor says that ain’t what poems are for but these days i don’t wanna make art that can’t also be a weapon against oppressors that can’t double as an invitation to organize this is not me making excuses for bad poems this is a critique of how we become experts a question of how that expertise can be used by the people who will die tomorrow with little food in the stomach or fridge or family these days all my dreams involve comrades last night i had a wild one about liberation there was people outside everywhere then when it got cold we all went inside every single one of us [had an inside]—the end i had a whacky idea about education yesterday that we should all know the best things for free i had a nightmare about my kin last week they were rotting in prisons and boardrooms and coffins and courtrooms and all equally lifeless revolution is the process of organized reanimation to admit that somebody killed you centuries ago and everything since has been apocalyptic reiteration call me amerikkkan if you wanna hear God choke call me New Afrikan if you wanna petrify colonialism

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THE ROLE OF THE ARTIST tell my momma i’m up before 9:00 AM plottin escape from the empire again throwin rocks at a man-­made apocaplypse gatherin firewood for the pentagon practicin my slingshot stance tryna play dominoes wit giants tryna topple puppet governments i’m two decades late for therapy third generation off the plantation got a bad habit of Maroon conspiracies got an attraction to New Afrikan landscapes got a mean two step for the after party tell the law nothin of substance tell the people everything you can tell no lies cuz it’s raining pig tongues claim no easy way out cuz backdoors break too it’s a whole lot of textbook revolutionaries it’s a handful of part-­time freedom fighters makin full-­time money off surviving the 60s my father told me to keep my head down i keep that in mind behind sandbag barricades my poems mean nothin if you don’t see me outside is callin for a different kind of poet who knows the importance of food programs who don’t back down from defense who knows there’s a time for canvas and a time to make political art out of a jaw

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A POEM IN WHICH WE SHOOT BACK “i’m tired of bulletins. i want bullets.”—­Assata Shakur a cop wanders onto my porch lost after an accident looking for directions he knocks before asking who’s there someone shoots him in the face he falls sloppy on the welcome mat a frenzied sheriff calls for help someone is trying to break into into his home and sheriff warns that he is carrying / legally / i arrive minutes later someone shoots the sheriff eight times then demands he drop the weapon an officer speeds past me on the highway i catch him at the next light after the exit someone drags him out of the passenger side window and wraps a strong arm around his throat exasperated he cries i can’t—­ a sergeant / a pig / a squad of police congregate on the suspicious side of a park someone pulls up and empties three magazines into every uniform in sight before commanding stillness over their lifeless lumped bodies a captain is shopping in Target’s toy section no one calls me but i show up ready sneak up behind the captain and someone slides a taser under the left side of his jaw

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he grabs for relief but the current don’t let go until he does and he lays there twitching while the rest of us go on about our business // i love my people. i protect and serve my people. i’ll die to neutralize any threat to my people. i’m a good soldier. i’m a tired militant. i’m an angry poet. i’m a fed-­up nigga. i’m an angry nigga fed up with poems. i been tired before so i must be dead by now. i been sick so i must be immune by now. what’s Black life to a murder machine? what good is mattering to a wolf’s front teeth?

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IN A PAST LIFE I WAS CHOKED BY A PIG AND ALL MY NEIGHBORS WATCHED IT HAPPEN INSTEAD OF JUMPING IN i’m about fifteen percent of who i was before the lockdown started roughly eight inches wider than i was at the beginning of March 2020 scrolling through obituaries every other hour. clicking on reasons to burn the white house down every morning before breakfast. last night i coulda swore it was me in the parkin lot of some liquor store. on the west side of an Ohio city i haven’t lived in since high school. standing there alive with both hands pointing the same direction. something that could be a gun materializing in the imagination of a news camera that was surely on its way. anything can be a gun when you have a no witnesses left behind policy. i’m sitting there watching me do what i am legally within my rights to do until the video devolves into a familiar kind of tragedy. and we know the tag line anything is a weapon when your job description is capital murder. how passively witnesses turn into accomplices standing in awe. and i don’t want yall to imagine what if truth is i have died eleven times this week and it’s only Tuesday you can’t tell me what you’d do on my behalf if a cop s me. i see you doing it right now i see you invested in petty bourgeoisie wet dreams i see you tryna keep your head down at the office when one side systematically kills without an equal or opposite reaction we call it undeclared war we call it genocide we call it amerikkkan tradition

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i wish this was an exaggeration i wish i could tell you that i’m not already dead but i am / i promise / i surely am and it’s a waste making false commitments to my ghost instead of doing something to stop the people who would me or have ed me or are ing me right now or those who will be targeted before my casket drops we come from a people who link arms with their ancestors i’m dead already but i’ll show up to the community garden i’ll write you a persona poem for the pamphlet if you miss me then summon me through revolutionary action.

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THE MOST IMPORTANT BALLOT OF OUR LIFETIME AGAIN just one more election | just one more vote | just one more win just one more seat | just one more century | just ignore the hunger pangs | just ignore the drone strikes | just remember the towers | just forget the chains | just forget the prison(er)s | just look away from the tents | just hold on | just keep on drowning just hold your breath | just collapse [quietly] while hoping for change | just pass away without interrupting the debate livestream | just wait til next year | just give it time | just give up your first and last born | just give up what’s left after rent | just give up | just kidding | just believe | just not in revolution | just look at me | just keep marching | just forget the last decade

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CAPITOL CAPITAL burnt wooden window panels make for opaque daydreams downtown is a hell of a commute when morning fog wreaks hot-­coal stench and lighter fluid steam hovers over traffic employees of the capitol building were left fuming law says police protect capital by any force Senate swore on a Bible to become state property tiki-­torch mobs breach barricades with relative ease turns out white supremacy is palpable or class struggle is rooted in comparative safety how can i make rulings on the state of this country if i still have to feel the impacts of the state of this country my uncle warns me about the dangers of bacon grease i take this to mean we don’t praise pigs or blood pressure is both fragile and sacred and we don’t waste it on people who exchange their identity for utility belts and flash grenades Black cops aren’t safe at block parties after dark Black cops conceal badge numbers in fabricated ties to street names there’s a joke about occupation in the cooler next to the Hennessy Black politicians move across town in order to finally make an impact Black politicians share bathroom breaks with [former] Klan members there’s a joke about contradictions on the ballot this year there’s a joke about democracy in the awkward silences between police helmets and confederate flags there’s a joke about allegiances flapping in the hallway collecting dust on the top floor of the courthouse there’s a joke about cotton in the jail cell below the judge’s gavel swaztikas make amerikkka remember the good ol’ days political theater don’t start til we believe in cheap magic tricks revolution don’t start til we stop believing slavery was abolished there’s a joke about job security during a global pandemic scattered on scraps of paper along the evacuated Senate floor we can’t mention grammatical differences between capital and capitol without mentioning the murder rate of empty congressional seats.

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THIS LAST ELECTION WAS A RIOT what do you call a person who writes protest poems but won’t throw a brick through a window you don’t. what do you call a brick through a window without language to name itself you don’t. everything don’t need to be weighed down with words some shit you can tell by what it does at half-­past midnight some people shrink like rotten pumpkins when a glock strikes twelve the people in black are usually made of fairytale wishes for human decency and anticapitalist utopias what do you call allies who start pretend fires but don’t flip tables at family functions democrats. good excuses for bloody knuckles bad company in a standoff against canine units what good is a notebook to a department store fire fueled by pepper spray what use is ink compared to a guillotine smirk carved into the neck of a monument what we gon do when bullet shells replace red hats or worse when blue ties replace red hats or when red hats become the standard or when there are no more aesthetics of racist proclamations what do you call a murderer with a troublesome habit of public declarations you don’t. he calls you for campaign donations.

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IRREFUTABLE PROOF I KNEW THE PRESIDENT PERSONALLY After Morgan Parker donald was born in the hatchback of a white Ford pickup truck donald was raised by both parents in the center of a cul-­de-­sac donald was my partner for a presentation on Martin Luther King Jr. donald was my best friend until we reached high school and then donald was the quarterback casually tossin around the n word donald shot a protestor in the face and got a promotion donald shot a kid in the stomach and his coworkers didn’t blink donald mowed down a woman and his criminal record didn’t flinch donald got his foreign policy from a bad standup comedian donald’s best jokes about Black people are 300 years old donald does not think jokes about his heritage are funny donald made a fist when i asked why his grandparents wore sheets donald passed me on the street and clutched her purse like a football donald walked into a booth and voted for himself 73 million times donald started a movement for herself and still lost the election donald said if you don’t vote, you ain’t Black donald took a page from drone-­strike policy and oil-­driven bloodshed donald copied off imaginary drug wars funded by jim crow nest eggs donald said he would end the civil war without freeing the enslaved donald was ousted in 2015 for wearing blackface at NAACP meetings donald is allergic to the words liberation and revolutionary donald blends in like a mass shooter in Bible study donald blends in like a proud boy in congress donald inherited clown shoes from his father donald perfected circus paint in business school donald called me a monkey in a grocery store without saying monkey donald laughs at the thought of not knowing where he comes from donald brings no original ideas to this imperialist group project.

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UP ABOVE MY HEAD a struggle against settler colonial dispossession is a struggle against Israeli military aid budgets is a struggle against borders bred in theft is a struggle against rubberized steel is a struggle against embargo economics is a struggle against genocidal euphemisms is a struggle against flower beds trampled by tanks is a struggle against ahistorical immaterialism is a struggle against occupation checkpoints is a struggle against police curfews is a struggle against national guard sleepovers is a struggle to assert a new reality a new reality is the birth of a new human is a new idea of community a new idea of community is a struggle against propaganda confusion if you are confused the enemy is usually fully covered by plastic riot shields is usually standing over a baby stroller laughing with one finger on the trigger is usually punching a teenager to protect a revolving door is usually not sweating while explaining why the air strike was necessary is usually not mentioning the children’s names the children’s names are struggles against forgetting are struggles against business-­as-­usual are struggles against bleach bombs are struggles against erasure erasure is a tool of the enemy the enemy is whoever tells you history is inconsequential is usually the furthest away from bloodshed the enemy wears a necktie around its tongue the enemy wants you to fight for your country the enemy won’t give you rights in your country even if you bleed for it to bleed for it is an unreality an unreality is a white identity a white identity is an extension of colonialism colonial­ism don’t stop cuz you ask nicely don’t stop cuz you tired don’t stop cuz it’s freezing in July don’t stop cuz polar bears is heat-­ stroked don’t stop cuz it’s had enough it don’t stop it don’t stop it just keeps repeating itself repeating itself repeating itself until

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OK SO MAYBE THE RALLY WON’T GET US FREE i’ve drummed at more protests than celebrations by protest i mean we had a target and goals without permits marched to the rhythm of tears beating the pavement’s skin what’s clear is we’ve been here before and will again what’s clear is there will be war until we win the war if there is no war maybe the u.s. will sand castle crumble if there is no u.s. maybe Africa can sleep with both eyes closed maybe Cuba can get a decent shot at a Sunday afternoon maybe Palestine will look back on occupation as a faint memory maybe our movements coming to a standstill won’t be surrender maybe the rally won’t get us free on this here Tuesday but listen for a few hours my lungs heave with a force besides grief and thousands of pissed-­off cardboard posters bounce beside me and yes we have to organize outside of mobilizations but dammit they killin children over there and over here and last night and the week before last and since the first settlers colonized and don’t that mean we got to burn somethin and don’t that mean we don’t stop til sunrise blossoms and burnt orange haze spills across skyline bridges and ain’t that physics or human nature or the least we could do for our babies there is entirely too much ash in this oxygen there are simultaneously not enough fires on the West Coast this evening i say coast and think of river borders and sea blockades of dense populations in open air prisons of gas mask kufiyas and bandana bandages of rocks denting literal canons my comrades remind me there are fires to start and i notice my hands are not nearly dirty enough.

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A MILLION MEN MARCH INTO A WILDFIRE Black men in Kente-­cloth suits gather to promise capitalism their left wrist in marriage. capitalism tosses them a chain. says kill 3 Africans including the one in your head and you got a deal. a prettier oppression ain’t gon stop this ecological crisis. a diverse oppressor still drinks blood between shifts. the trouble was never exclusion. but that there is anything to exclude us from. i say there’s fires to start and i mean preventative ones, too. like if we don’t destroy this it will destroy us. i mean the smoke is getting heavier and the shoreline higher and the magma hotter and the icebergs smaller, and pig salaries wider and Congress darker, and if we keep on tryna blacken up colonialism we’ll succeed just in time to die on top of each other.

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STOP THE VIOLENCE! said the gravedigger shovel to the skeleton said the election polling station to the underfunded school said the increased police budget to the climbing homicide rate said the momma chicken to the unhatched eggs said the trigger finger to the back of the head said the firing squad to the rope-­burned ribs said the battering ram to the broken door hinges said the SWAT team to the warm blood on the floor said the manager to the breakroom’s cracked mirror said the CEO lunch date to the dirty dish rag said the metropole to the colony said the five fingers to the cheek said the diversity committee to the Negro™ said the Negro™ to the nigga said no one to the white house said no one to the cost of living said no one to the 6:00 AM eviction squad said no one to the juvenile detention center said no one to the lethal injection staff said no one to the razor-­w ire prison wall said no one to the governor’s garden party said no one to the landlord’s pay stub said no one to the university’s new student center said no one to the rotten roots under the apple tree.

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YOU KNOW HE SHOT AT THE POLICE RIGHT? for Hakim Littleton you know he might not have had his hands up you know he wasn’t up to date on his YMCA membership you know he did not mentor at-­risk teenagers after school you know his license was suspended and his taillights shattered you know he wasn’t wearin a lick of white when they found him had his pants saggin had his shirt untucked had his lips unbuckled drippin Southern twang all on the concrete sound like a mouthful of honeybees was stuck at the top of his throat. you know he was Black like BlackBlack like dark roast coffee beans like ashy knuckles cradlin a bottle of Wild Irish Rose on the sidewalk like tattered scarecrow clothes perched just outside the corner store like purple-­tar gums and gold teeth like paper-­bag hands and menthol breath like empty Black and Mild wrappers in the glove compartment like Black Ice car fresheners dangling from the rearview i heard it wasn’t even blood where they left him i heard it was just stains of red Kool-­A id i heard it was just puddles of strawberry pop fizz you know sugar woulda got him if twelve didn’t you know his teeth were little yellowing daggers you know he was a dragon / returned fire went out in a puff of smoke you know he was a weapon didn’t beg for his life or call for his mother or his partner you know that nigga went out on his feet brought a gun to a gun fight brought mutiny to a slave ship at the Atlantic shoreline you know that nigga was a nigga not like haha nigga not like next democratic presidential nominee nigga

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not like run fast jump high nigga like worm food covered in tree bark like lead water clogging an artery like dead leaves stuck in a gutter like storm-­the-­arsenal and shoot-­the-­masters like one of those give-­me-­liberty or give-­me-­blood types nigga got the nerve to want freedom and do somethin bout it and still yall gon march for him what would Malcolm X’s old zoot suit think what would a white liberal’s rendition of Dr. King think what would the noose say what if they see us mourning and think we just as dangerous as him what if i say liberation and they think i mean i hate amerikkka what if i hate amerikkka but don’t know no other homeland what if amerikkka hates me back but doesn’t leave me time to shoot first

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NONPROFIT EQUITY STATEMENT WALKS INTO A SUMMER 2020 WRITING WORKSHOP your #blacklivesmatter laptop sticker is not doing the work you think it is i wanna talk about the inclusion committee i wanna talk about your staff and board i wanna talk about the students you [do not] serve i wanna talk about what you did [not do] before shell casings ricocheted off unarmed flesh before buildings like yours became cheap lumber before downtown populated into campfire chants before marshmallows like you started lookin like midnight snacks before a thousand pitchforks gathered in skyscraper alleys before Monday night looked like a decent occasion for pig funerals before election ads revealed politicians only show teeth at mealtime i wanna talk about your aversion to the word Black i wanna talk about the seats at your dinner table i wanna know if you would die for a Black person i wanna know if you would vacate your house for a Black family i wanna know what you look like twelve months away from luxury i do not mean a year-­long artist residency i do not mean your missionary work of gentrifying unceded territory i mean you having to plan a funeral no one in your family can afford i do not want you to understand how we feel i do not care if you understand i want you to feel it i wanna turn your organs inside out i wanna really reverse [racism] your skin i want you strung up naked on a flagpole

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call it a pledge of allegiance how you stripe red how you bleed for a population that betrayed you and i don’t want you to die i want you flap there in the wind until you muster the strength to pull yourself down wiggling to half-­mast by your bootstraps til your mother arrives to find what’s left of you with a lynch mob’s worth of questions and no answers / and no suspects even though the entire town knows who did it i want you hobbling back to the sunny side of a high rise i want your heavy breathing to bruise your ribs on the drive to work i want you to retell the story of how your cracked shell broke runny i want you to struggle to talk about it i want you to perish a little inside whenever you pass a cop i want you to faint at the sight of an amerikkkan flag i want you to throw up when you hear the national anthem i want you to wince at the thought of a traffic stop i want you to study John Brown as a blueprint i want you to study Marilyn Buck and see a future for yourself i want you to take responsibility for the unclaimed skulls in the ocean i want you to take a hard look at your grandmother’s checkbook i want you to literally fistfight your grandparents i want you to end / all of this / right now.

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THERE’S FIRES TO START higher education made me an Afro-­centric middleman i was radicalized in the audience of a diversity and inclusion panel i learned masochistic political commitments breed scholarship for sport billionaires will fashion a platform out of a protest poster podiums don’t belong next to Molotov cocktails so soon as you start smellin gasoline it’s time to turn around—­carefully can’t lead the people from behind them but a leader not chosen by the people is a u.s. president press tours staked on the bloody backs of Black babies is treason time sheet’s greatest trick was convincing us work was not life and cashiers reluctantly clock into cubicles shaped like coffins and wrinkled uniforms differentiate workers from the living what kinda punches would we throw if our friends exploited our labor or weekends or kindness like our managers do revolutionaries line dance when it’s time for movements am i still invited to the family reunion even though i refused to vote is the shoreline rising like a nervous hand during a pop quiz or is it just time for me to put this Johnnie Walker down are my questions proof of curiosity or avoidance techniques how much more is there to say until pigs start droppin proportionately despite news media mythology humans are humans until they’re not rumor has it politicians don’t take too kindly to paper cuts or other proof that once upon a time they were mortal.

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UNTITLED (FOR LACK OF FREE TIME) late rent notifications made me a moonlight music man. a journal entry in the break room. an open bar on the weekend. a poor sport in the assembly line. a broken outlet. my barber asks well if not this then what? i stumble over socialist vocabulary then blurt out prison rumors. shouldn’t we be down for anything else since this has already killed us.

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WORKSHEET #2 1. if disobeying you is legally punishable by death . you are (check all that apply) ‰ lit dynamite tossed into a packed room with one exit ‰ no one’s god making sacrificial art of nonbelievers ‰ splinter-­wood stuffed between working class cuticles ‰ Regina George before the bus adjusted her posture ‰ my father’s fist clenching a leather belt into lightning ‰ lynch-­mob boots braided between branches of poplar ‰ commander of a genocide masquerading as service ‰ no one’s god convinced you can outdo Revelations ‰ bloodthirsty imagination that inspired the guillotine ‰ wrecking ball at the knees of a recreation center ‰ excessively-­militarized hall monitor ‰ quicksand with a growing appetite ‰ judge of a small town ‰ destruction-­prone ‰ accident-­driven ‰ no one’s god ‰ wrong-­turn sign ‰ something wrong ‰ something, wrong. ‰ some thing. wrong.

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I LIVE JUST EAST OF A CONTRADICTION clumps of knotted hair skip excitedly over sidewalk cracks in pairs screeching tires scrape murals into over-­patrolled crosswalk paint city tremors and zip codes shaken loose from indigenous childhoods colonialism don’t respect finders keepers all’s fair in genocide except self-­defense humans are too familiar with the politics of thunderstorm forecasts squalor sittin next door to neighborhood-­sized apartment buildings half-­empty baby bottles rollin over broken glass under the freeway brandnew cop cars takin victory laps around decade-­old encampments dead grass grapplin with the distance between beating hearts piles of repurposed couch cushions and bench warrants covered in sewage climate crisis confused by the civilians piled on the curb while profits sky-­rocket for empty housing units while a high rise crawls out the chapped lips of an investor i’m not really sure how leasing works or the latest ethics for ownership all my comrades keep space on the couch and a spare blanket push the weight limits of a Honda Civic and there’s always room Wednesday is a good excuse to shoplift under capitalism yesterday was sufficient evidence to stack bricks near glass houses 1970s criminal records are waitin for academics to put on work boots i’m not sure what’s legal and what’s tradition anymore at some point sick of this shit should lead us to get rid of city council lest we be made of plastic promises too lest the young have a bone to pick lest that bone come from our inactive trigger fingers lest there be no land left to pick a fight on

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i blame the suffering last for how we survive the winter i blame the governor for flooded highways and raining ash i blame poverty on vegan-­diet commercials and yoga studios i blame police for all the mornings my father bit his tongue on the job i blame police for my lazy-­eye twitch and my productivity obsession i blamed the sheriff’s office last week when i stubbed my toe and it left an iron star-­shaped blood stain in my sock.

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OBJECTIVE FACTS banana is a terrible artificial flavor it’s ok to shoot [back] at cops i’m not an advocate for violence but for peace violence is houseless evictions [during fire season] violence is the terms houseless eviction and food waste violence is eight-­figure budgets for kkkop unions you have to say it three times before it sticks whoever invented banana flavoring hates us banana flavor tastes nothing like bananas annually u.s. companies discard literal tons of food when i say it’s ok to shoot back maybe i mean necessary maybe i mean we’ve tried everything else maybe it’s time we buck up and buck back there are enough structures to house every human Captain Planet has beef with the u.s. military a few people have decided the color of the sky even less have decided the flavor of the ocean schools are closing due to poison water fountains prisons remain open despite hurricane evacuations prisons remain open despite smoke in the vents prisons remain open despite an airborne pandemic public schools close in the Midwest when it’s cold new prisons generate revenue for downtown suits new schools don’t produce free-­labor forces a student asks too many questions of the whip a prisoner can’t call home for a guardian with history books like this who needs a pledge? if you do the math you end up on a watch list if you do the math you become a flight risk if you do the math you find a gun in your hand

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Kwame Ture is my favorite poet if we love our people we’ll organize if we are tired of this shit we’ll organize if we want uncontaminated oxygen we’ll organize my parents want a revolution but not a revolutionary son Obama was the most effective war criminal to date i’ll trust a white revolutionary before a Black overseer what we believe is a result of our understanding of history what we believe means very little if we don’t act on it what we believe might be what’s keeping us in chains i believe in self-­defense and liberated zones i believe in above-­ground decolonization i believe in avoiding enemy lines at all costs i believe that we will win i believe / that we will win i / believe / that we / will win.

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“theory without practice is just as incomplete as practice without theory. the two have to go together.” —ASSATA SHAKUR

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TO LEARN MORE ABOUT HOW TO GET ACTIVE TAP IN WITH: People’s Programs https://www.peoplesprograms.com All African People’s Revolutionary Party (AAPRP) https://aaprp-­intl.org Neighbor Program https://www.neighborprogram.org Community Movement Builders http://www.communitymovementbuilders.org Spirit of Mandela https://spiritofmandela.org Jericho Movement https://thejerichomovement.com Critical Resistance criticalresistance.org Malcolm X Grassroots Movement (MXGM) https://freethelandmxgm.org Provisionary Government of the Republic of New Afrika (PG-­RNA) https://pg-­rna.com

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IF YOU FELT DRAWN TO THE POEMS IN THE THIRD SECTION, HERE IS A SHORT LIST OF BOOKS THAT INFORMED MUCH OF THAT WRITING/REFLECTION: We Want Freedom By Mumia Abu-­Jamal Assata: An Autobiography By Assata Shakur Pedagogy of the Oppressed By Paolo Freire Revolutionary Suicide By Huey Newton The Black Panthers Speak Edited by Philip S. Foner Still Black, Still Strong: Survivors of the U.S. War Against Black Revolutionaries By Dhoruba Bin Wahad, Assata Shakur, and Mumia Abu-­Jamal The War Before By Safiya Bukhari The Myth of Black Buying Power By Jared A. Ball A Guide for Organizing Defense against White Supremacist, Patriarchal, and Fascist Violence By Ahjamu Umi

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Blood in my Eye By George Jackson How Europe Underdeveloped Africa By Walter Rodney We Do This ‘Til We Free Us By Mariame Kaba

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NOTES/PREVIOUSLY PUBLISHED this book’s title “Never Catch Me” is borrowed from the song “Never Catch Me” by Flying Lotus ft. Kendrick Lamar and draws special inspiration from the music video directed by Hiro Murai. “PERHAPS WE ARE OUR ANCESTORS’ WILDEST DREAMS” uses a line from the chorus in E-­40’s song “Function” “I Don’t Know What Yall Came to Do” borrows its title from the chorus in Tony! Toni! Toné!’s song “House Party”.

“IN DETROIT A CLUSTER OF BLACK FOLKS IS CALLED A HUSTLE” includes a line from Ludacris’s song, “Stand Up”. “I THINK HEAVEN IS ACTUALLY RIGHT HERE, STEVIE” references a song by Stevie Wonder titled, “Heaven is 10 Zillion Lightyears Away”. “Glossary of Terms” includes a line from a quote in a 1970 interview with Dennis Brutus titled, “Somehow Tenderness Survives”. “IRREFUTABLE PROOF I KNOW THE PRESIDENT PERSONALLY” is after Morgan Parker’s poem “Matt”. “DREAMGIRLS SOUNDTRACK TRACK 5” includes a line from the song “Love You I Do” performed by Jennifer Hudson on the Dreamgirls soundtrack. “THE ROLE OF THE ARTIST” borrows, and slightly remixes, language from Amilcar Cabral’s “Extracts from Party Directive 1965”.

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big love and appreciation to the following publications and specifically the editors, staff, and readers who gave many of these poems their first home as earlier drafts. Adroit Journal: “ETYMOLOGY OF ‘FUCK 12’” American Poetry Review: “CAIN”, “EARLY 2000s FASHION WAS A CONFUSING TIME FOR ALL OF US” Chestnut Review: “IRREFUTABLE PROOF I KNOW THE PRESIDENT PERSONALLY” Common Ground KNUCKLES”

Review:

“PLEADING

WITH

SCRAPED

Crab Creek Review: “SHATTER” Grist: A Journal of the Literary Arts: “WORKSHEET #2”, “IF I’M CAUGHT BETWEEN A BADGE AND A HARD PLACE THREE HOURS AFTER THE STREET LIGHTS TURN ON” Hood Communist: “THE ROLE OF THE ARTIST”, “UP ABOVE MY HEAD”, “THERE’S FIRES TO START”, “a poem in which we shoot back” New Ohio Review: “WHAT IS THERE TO DO IN AKRON, OH?”, “WE DON’T DIE” Nimrod International Journal of Prose and Poetry: “SEVENTY-­T WO HOURS”, “YEA I DID IT” Platypus Press: “ON A DAY I PASS ANOTHER 100 YEAR OLD WHITE MAN A BLACK MAN IS PRONCOUNCED DEAD AT 54”

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Poetry: “PERHAPS WE ARE OUR ANCESTORS’ WILDEST DREAMS” Raleigh Review: “LAST CALL”, “AND IT DON’T STOP” Small Press Traffic: “YOU KNOW HE SHOT AT THE POLICE RIGHT?”, “10:33 OUTSIDE YOUR LOCAL PRECINCT”, “IMPACT: A RUN-­ON QUESTION” Southern Humanities Review: “I LEFT THE CHURCH IN SEARCH OF GOD” Split this Rock: “ma’am i’m sorry to tell you, your son is d-­” Tinderbox Poetry Journal: “IN DETROIT A CLUSTER OF BLACK FOLKS IS CALLED A HUSTLE”, “DREAMGIRLS SOUNDTRACK TRACK 5” TriQuarterly: “WORD PROBLEMS” “WHAT IS THERE TO DO IN AKRON, OH?” appears in The 2021 Best American Poetry Anthology, edited by Tracy K. Smith. “WE DON’T DIE” appears in “What Things Cost: An Anthology for the People”, edited by Rebecca Gayle Howell and Ashley M. Jones, with Emily Jalloul.

big love and appreciation to People’s Programs and Neighbor Program for giving many of these poems their first and, for some, only homes in the newspapers, pamphlets, and propaganda.

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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS first and foremost wanna thank my momma for introducing me to poetry and to myself. for taking me to watch my first poetry slam. for lovingly encouraging and persistently pressuring a teenage me to keep writing. for cheerleading my words to let me know she thought i was good at something early on. eternally grateful for your unwavering commitment to your beliefs, including the people you believe in. love you more than i may ever be able to express through words.  whatever word is grander than gratitude to Imani Cezanne, my dearest friend, my closest critic, a cleared space on a soft couch, an always-­ready backup dancer and lead soloist. without your criti­ ques, reflections, friendship, edits, encouragement, book club conversations, there would be no book. thank you.  thank you to Simone Person for your careful eye and generous reflections on these poems and all the hopes i had for this collection. thank you to the folks who’ve seen the worst of me and these poems and still show up to support both. Krystal, Mercedes, Ken, Gabe, Steve, AJ, Leigha, Stacee, Imani, Brandyn, Karina, Malcolm, Kwame Scruggs, Kwame Williams, Tyler, Shawntrail, Daryl, Jenna, Noelle, Taylor, Mariah, Leah, Jeff, Ami, DeAnn, Keith, Tasnia, Rob, Demajae, Adam. thank you to my lifelong family for all your support past and present. Pops, Tabitha, Chloe, Lennox, Brandon, Sugamama, Granny Mary, Papa, Auntie Jasmine, Auntie Marshelle, Auntie Rocky, Auntie Dee-­Dee, Jordan, Jalyn, Virgil, Veardell, Uncle Troy, Bro. Eddy, Tia, and all my cousins and uncles and aunties. thank you to the people whose friendships and support have kept me anchored in Oakland while writing these poems. Alan, Daniel, Gabriel, Janae, Jonathan, Sarah, Liana, EJ, Jada, Zou, Jihad.

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thanks beyond words to Dr. Logwood and Dr. Peters for all they’ve been to any Black student blessed enough to cross their paths, especially student organizers. thank you to Janae Johnson for challenging me in ways you don’t even know and inspiring me just by how you be. cheers, my nigga. love to Zuu and Mike and Alex and Tiran. continue to rest easy. thank you to the Black folks I encountered during my time at Mills College who gave feedback on the earliest of drafts for many of these poems. folks who got down on dancefloors, or stuffy literary podiums, or open mic stages with me. Mia, Marissa, Meikko, MJ, Toya, Alie, Rai, Alcian, Duane, Danielle, Janae(MC!!), Kimani, Ericka, Brandon. thank you to Truong Tran for pluggin opportunities and talkin shit about institutions and gathering us around a table to edit poems and laugh and break bread. thank you to Button Poetry, especially to Sam and Tanesha, for believing in these and so many other poems and poets who’ve kept me afloat. thank you to the folks at the Patrice Lumumba Writer’s Workshop. Tongo, Dajaun, Landon, Meilani, Halima, Mama T, James, Suzi, Sarai. yall some bad mufuckas wit the pen and in general.  thank you to the leadership, members, and volunteers at People’s Programs for continuously showing me what kinds of other worlds are possible and worth living for and worth fighting for. “settle your quarrels, come together, understand the reality of our situation, understand that fascism is already here, that people are dying who could be saved, that generations more will die or live poor butchered

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half-­lives if you fail to act. do what must be done, discover your humanity and your love in revolution. pass on the torch. join us, give up your

life for the people.” —George Jackson

there’s fires to start.

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Darius Simpson is a writer, educator, performer, and skilled living-­ room dancer from Akron, Ohio. Much like the means of production, he believes poetry belongs to and with the masses. He aims to inspire those chills that make you frown and slightly twist up ya face in approval. Darius believes in the dissolution of empire and the total liberation of Afrikans and all oppressed people by any means available. Free The People. Free The Land. Free All Political Prisoners.

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