Chapter and Verse: An NRG Variant

This past weekend was a mixture of sweet conquest and bitter fruit.

While allowing myself to finally feel comfortable discussing my amorphous sexuality, the State continued to dole out various abuses to the psyche and spirits of the People.

I pumped my fist when Philando Castile’s mother expressed her rage and indignation at a system that has continued to fail the People no matter the blantant guilt of the offender.

And many of my friends also expressed their rage via social media. Not only because of the verdict but because of the verbal poplocking exhibited by their white liberal friends. Faux shock, grief, pat, pat, pat, and I was so sure THAT cop would be convicted.

Oh, you mean like Michael Slager, who was also caught on camera committing murder?

Jason Van Dyke, Timothy Loehmann?

Muthafucka please. So long as the system that enslaved us is still in place no cop will ever be convicted for doing their job. Intimidating us, incarcerating us, killing us, is part of the job.

You see our forgiveness is expected. We’re supposed to look at the camera, broken, and say that God gon’ see us through and enact a final justice. Last first and so on.

We brought that expectation upon ourselves. Going high, instead of aiming for the knees. Being the bigger figure when the shadows would have suited our deeper disposition. Spending all of our time waiting for ‘ol white Nigga Jesus to swing low in his pimped out chariot.

Now that we’ve been actively, aggressively pressing for human rights in these times, our vocal outbursts, demands for respect are deemed too hostile. Or too P.C. It’s our fault that the lines of communication have failed. Our fault that “allies” are jumping ship, or rather reinserting their roots Miley Cyrus style. Going home and taking the ball.

Mind you, I have much admiration for those who have gone on before. I also see the wisdom in burning some shit down.

They assume that our forgiveness is infinite. That we will continue to pray that God will bless them in a timely manner and make them aware of the rivers of blood we baptize our babies in.

We keep on begging their pardon…

You know of whom I speak. Your neighbor, your friends cousin, father, grandfather. We see them posing in black and white photos beneath the scarred, burned and castrated bodies of the dead. Gleefully devouring pieces of the corpse.

That girl, determined to twerk with the rhythm, in love with black dick but mad at the majority for speaking up when all she wants is a mixed baby, some fried chicken recipes and cornrows.

All the Gary Owens taking a page from the book of Bill Maher. Thinking they have a right to speak up while talking down on black women. 

You know them. They’re that one kinfolk who calls every black woman queen yet admonishes them with ashy mountain heaps of hotepery. Part psychologist, part gynecologist, with the keys to a Kemetian kingdom if only they can get you off the swine and convince the rest of us brethren that cleaning our butts is an act of emasculation. 

Oh yes, and let’s not forget about these global conspiracy theorists. Using a nebulous, mega rich alien hybrid enemy as an excuse to victim blame, resent those on the front line and say that our efforts only make the problem worse. 

A weekend of solace mixed with sorrow. That Monday at work I looked at the face of Charleena Lyles. She looks just like one of my nieces. 

So as I choked back tears at my desk I cursed the legacy and spirits of all racists, all police, the murderers and those who keep silent. I walked away from work for as far as my legs could take me and I called down the wrath of my ancestors. Every soul lost at sea. Every man, woman and child hung by a mob. 

 I spit curses at everyone who wants to see us dead. 

 The apologists who won’t check the family members who rationalize hatred,  xenophobia, homophobia. The people who romanticize our skin, fetishize our bodies, covet our designs, lampoon our dance steps and suckered the marrow from our bones. 

I raged at the men who uphold misogynoir, teach their sons self hate, their daughters and wives fear. I raged at politicians, prosperity preachers, the silent and the resentful. 

After I caught the bus a more dispassionate frame of mind took over. In the midst of my pain, the fog began to clear. Home. Self care followed by sleep. Then a formulation. Realization. ….

And forever forward. A friend posed the question, 

“How the fuck do we get ourselves out of this? ”

I can’t call it on my own.  But I’m willing and ready to do what’s necessary.

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Published by: milton

Writing reminds me that the running commentary in my head is neither madness Nor genius......I observe, process and report as the world turns. I am a poet and sometime painter, a husband, father and social justice warrior on the digital battlefield. Truth is my armor, my pen a sword. I weave spells with word+sound and power in an attempt to educate and document for our children. I appreciate all the love thus far. My only hope is justice for all disenfranchised, marginalized and ostracized beings on this planet.

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