Dramatic. Like Gandhi
tucking a firearm into
the waistline of a three-
piece suit, asking Congress
to pass the George Floyd
Justice in Policing Act.
Or like Tupac spitting
at reporters, and then
speeding down the
street in a black jeep,
navigating a broken
culture. Bizarre like that.
Electric like that. The vibes
are the vibes. James
Brown kicks in a riff, gives
life to dull moments, as
I skate across still oxygen
in a stuffy room that is
entirely too small for my
militant breaths, trying
to mimic liberation and
break the cage. Beyond
changing definitions,
strange looks from liberals,
and hostile stares from
conservatives who will
grow no taller than their
colonial egos. This machine
breathes devilish omens.
I two-step to a beat in
my head, refusing to be
concerned with “Make
American Great Again”
or other bankrupt beliefs.
Empires fold, fall. Regimes
change, remain the same.
Blue and red waves crash.
I march to a different drummer,
in stereo, choosing violence
or a clever gamble to escape
a flawed system. Risk is burden.
Risk is gift. A chance to fight,
to inspire, to uplift.
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