Category Archives: Poetry

GAZA TALKS

as i walk through the check-points-
“PASS!” fires at me.
i grimace, flashing the papers that allow me
to get to my destination.
i never make eye contact,
only press my paper to the face of the gates.
we’re all in uniforms.
weapons surround us as we weave through traffic/
long lines of lost souls
trekking through the fog of
broken lives,
broken hearts and
hard life sentences.
a few rebels are sprinkled in the mix.
lethargy surrounds me.
i’ve been able to blend in,
only slightly detectable
when my face goes stone at the sounds of
“RIGHT SIDE OF THE LINE!
SINGLE FILE!”

i’m shuffled back into a place that
at least 90% of my surroundings don’t know exist,
even though the guards               are the same,
the walls              are the same,
the mentalities      are the same   and…
the slow-motion genocide is the EXACT same!

the beast continues to chomp away at the
people whom are less fortunate.
i’m part of the few that have
merged with the feelings of rage of the oppressed!
Suheir Hammad’s poetry has become a
Bible Study in my daily walk.
i pass the check points/gates/cages
and almost fail to realize
This is McConnell Unit
(and not Palestine)
which is like Polunsky
which is like Telford
which is like Michaels-
the very first prototype
of a new oppression:
control unit prisons!
boxes within boxes within boxes.
we have apartheid here too!
we smuggle taste of freedom under our clothes too!
we hustle for extra food too!
just trying to
reclaim those feelings of
humanity stripped from our fingertips.

my face contorts at orders and
those that accept them with no rejection.
at least give me some disdain.
our annihilation has become a sugar-coated bomb.
in our gluttony and ignorance
we greedily gobble down the
high cholesterol laws and policies
that are slowly
creeping through our valves
getting ready to
STRANGLE OUR HEARTS!

there has been no true cease fire.
just as Israel has increased the
number of settlers in the west bank
from 190,000 to more than half a million
Texas has built over 120 prisons
over a span of 20 years.
137 prisons total.
political minded prisoners should be sprouting abundantly!
Texas and Gaza are fraternal twins separated at birth-
Both spawning concentration camp like conditions.
amerika can’t swallow the Intifada breathing down their door.

we must tap into the wind of
international consciousness
which brings our pain to ONE inhale
and our actions into ONE exhale.

i’ve overridden my prison #’s with
Arabic tattooed on my neck-
my body
(chest to back)
is now a billboard for revolutionary messages.

YES!
our massacre is unfolding in slow motion
and not even death
should stop us
from trying to rewind this
fucked up story
which has become our
LIFE!!

NINE ONE

tick tock
the plot
drips & drops
as too much doubt hits the clock
and we remember the
pick-up truck rounding the block
and the thoughts of
hate clots
brainwaves ready to deliver
cruel ironic shocks
as this scene is hatched
our firm views become botched
as the one many surely hated
now faces what we’re ultimately trying to stop
especially when one deserves saving
now we trapped in a helluva box
while we speak for the innocent we deem
we speak for the guilty, too, so it seems
our pleas for mercy strongly streams
into the man that grinned when James was bleeding
our torture becomes a theme
when we just can’t win
Troy, we lost once again
no repents behind this scene
2 murders mixed together
though like oil & water separated
their paths merged in this sick vendetta
it seems a blueprint to confuse our mind
our morals crossed by a thin line
between love & hate
we debate these 2 men’s fate
but a divided house is a conquered faith
so on nine-two-one
we lose both ways
getting what we want
then losing a stay
through our diluted hearts we lose the way
does lady Justice get the last say
as she laughs in our wretched state
from this tormentor
called
the death penalty!

 

(In Memory of Troy Davis, James Byrd and ironically Lawrence Brewer)

SHATTERED DREAMS

Mirrors have been banned from Ad Seg inTexas. Ad Seg inmates can no longer have the small hand held mirrors (that commissary once sold). They say the inmates can make weapons (of Mass Destruction) with them!

 

REALLY?

 

Inmates have been making weapons LONG before these small hand held mirrors and will be making weapons LONG after (unfortunately, though).

 

You see, when you leave a neglected mind and abandoned body to its own devices it will start to divide and conquer the space known to him as boredom aka apathy aka rotting existence. Through madd science- and pure neglect- inmates experiment with matter when nobody was giving a damn about the matter at hand (oppression, cruelty, indifference) matter of factly! So, YES! Contraptions have been conceived. But, the first time a pencil was used to poke holes in flesh why wasn’t it banned? We must observe the MOTIVES behind these master architects of torture. For those in Ad Seg who already suffer the supreme experience of sensory deprivation they have finally received the coup de grace of the 5.

 

1.
Hands have been locked and barred from the most spiritual of the 5. NO touching allowed. NO hug, firm hand shake, or pounds to give to those you have come to share this hell of a life with.

 

2.
Sounds no longer lick the ears with pleasantries, but kick the eardrums with SLAM, BAM, BANG, ID #, SHAKEDOWN. These words slither their way to brains which will be future stem cell research material to figure out how bodies in Ad Seg cells began to reflect spinal meningitis symptoms.

 

3.
Taste buds bloom prickly cotton thorns from beef stew, mildew and a stew of ronis, macaronis and phoney, phoney substances entitled food.

 

4.
The smell, now invaded by the stewed surroundings of withering bodies, emit the shit, sweat, stressed odors that come with doing this kind of time.

And thus the death blow:

 

5.
The last of the Mohicans, the one thing that remained which kept us attached to the remnants of what human life was like. To be able to gaze in the pupils and search deep for the child before crime, molestation and gang infestation. The ability to see that the face can still smile now and cry later, but it’s all see you  later alligator, au revoir, arrivederci, Auf wiedersehen. The alarms went off that inmates were digging, pushing, prying, finding their way to release through these portals, passage ways that show more than the stern, racist, cruel faces reflected onto us from the other images standing in front of us; monstrosity putting on tinsel shows that want us to be walking dead, invasion of the body snatchers, texas chainsaw massacres.

 

So, they blind us. Forbid vision, hindsight, foresight- “belly, back, side” as the Trinis say- cause it’s everything, everywhere, everyone GONE! How can we perceive the thieves, view the brutes, when we’ve lost touch with the closest thing to freedom- our faces free of bars, cages, mesh, chicken wire- staring back at us, tempting us, to reflect what we see and see a reflection beyond the scumbags and hoodlums they write us off as in the Express, Chronicle, Herald.

 

They want to Oh Say Can You See us dwindling from existence. Inmate on Inmate assaults are NO LESS and no prettier as items still slice, dice and puncture. It was never about the violence anyway, rather how we was silently finding our way back.

 

Our passage way is no more. PROHIBITED! Made Enemy of the State! FORBIDDEN to us to forever dull us, damage us and kill us softly as we die forgetting we ever existed at all.

THE SPARK

ashes, ashes
they all fall down
when the flames of hate
lick up our heels
twirling these
deranged bodies that have
known empty stomachs
one too many times.
from the sands of Tunisia
to the
twisted steel of Texas
we find that oppression has a
sour kiss
hemlock
venus fly trap lips that
devours our humanity in gulps.
i can’t say i know what
tunnels under Egypt are like
but i’ve smuggled food and supplies
to those considered
enemies of the state
combatants
sardine compacted in
Ad Seg cells.
but
what we don’t know
(yet)
is the fire that
one self-induces
when despair has
rock a bye baby’d him
into a dream state where this
hot
horrid
humiliating
death by fire-
that was short
but felt an eternity-
was preferable to this
hot
horrid
humiliating
life by oppression
that was long
but felt incomplete.
for the ones that
look down on us-
be us w/ beards & kufis
or
white uniforms & cuff rings-
their spit is all the same
the boot drags my neck
just as hard
and the disdain
stains the same.
so when asked
“how do you
survive
and keep your sanity?”,
i say…
i don’t know,
but each time a
MOHAMED BOUAZIZI
can spark a revolution
making the flames of hate
lick up his heels
because he just
couldn’t take
being shit on again…
i drop to my knees
and plea
because i know when
ashes, ashes
they all fall down
the next time
it could be
me.

 

(In Memory of Troy Davis, James Byrd and ironically Lawrence Brewer)