Midnight Toker

I am sick of writing this poem but bring the boy. his new name his same old body. ordinary, black dead thing. bring him & we will mourn until we forget what we are mourning & isn’t that what being black is about? not the joy of it, but the feeling you get when you are looking at your child, turn your head, then, poof, no more child. that feeling. that’s black. \ think: once, a white girl was kidnapped & that’s the Trojan war. later, up the block, Troy got shot & that was Tuesday. are we not worthy of a city of ash? of 1000 ships launched because we are missed? always, something deserves to be burned. it’s never the right thing now a days. I demand a war to bring the dead boy back no matter what his name is this time. I at least demand a song. a song will do just fine. \ look at what the lord has made. above Missouri, sweet smoke.

The time will come when, with elation you will greet yourself arriving at your own door, in your own mirror and each will smile at the other’s welcome, and say, sit here. Eat. You will love again the stranger who was your self.

Muscle is created by repeatedly lifting things that have been designed to weigh us down. So when your shoulders feel heavy, stand up straight and lift your chin – call it exercise. When the world crumbles around you, you have to look at the wreckage and then build a new one out of all the pieces that are still here. Remember, you are still here. The human heart beats approximately four thousand times per hour. Each pulse, each throb, each palpitation is a trophy engraved with the words ‘You are still alive.’ You are still alive. Act like it.