The Murder of Oscar Grant, RIP: Another Police Brutality Incident

“A peaceful protest turned into a violent one.”

So what?

It’s not the violence that’s not the answer, it’s the disorganization.

“A peaceful protest turned into a violent one.”

Cops with guns, cops backed by tanks, helicopters and bright lights shining above, we may be the people of the sun but those ghetto birds were shining bright florescent lights onto us that night.

How many times will an attack on the people be written off?

The execution shows, as many times as necessary.

Martin Luther King Jr. Day is next Monday but Malcolm said, “By Any Means Necessary.”

The murder of Oscar Grant is an example to get the people to STAY IN LINE!: Kill one as an example, scare them into fear.

“A peaceful protest turned into a violent one.”

Violence begats violence.

I would kill for my dead son, any dead man of my people is the same as my dead son, brother, husband or father.

Rise up and organize into formation loved ones! Youth! Rise up with purpose!

With cause.

Already, disorganized emotions have turned into chaotic actions.

The media has planned with the government to suppress any uprise…we must use stealth, covert actions at first, focused planning, trained soldiers.

They come out with guns, tanks, tear gas…then we must come out with fighting mastery, guns, bombs, uniforms, be ready soldiers.

We are fighting inside war.

Stop getting killed!

Organize!

Focus the energy!

Smashing Black owned shops ain’t bringing Oscar Grant back!

Smash the system! Like trained soldiers during the art of war,

Smash it like you’re looking down the handle of your sword, and the battle is won when the tip meets the eyes of the enemy. Slash!

Rain Haiku

And so, I relax

An upside-down umbrella

in the dripping rain.

Lost

In a maze of stumble and confusion with a clear pointed goal,

a compass, gold, pointing me towards the future.

get over the past it says,

a hand was reaching towards me guiding me out of

barren transformations,

stumbling and bumbling towards a future

You – a light drifting upon black waters

You - a sign like a cherry blossom floating on dark waters

and so the door opens and I walk, walk.

Hope?

What hope?

Hope for a world consisting of inconsistencies

of hoods on top of garbage dumps

in India, Bangladesh, Cambodia - - - -

on top of piles of nasty garbage

smelly garbage

puky garbage

Where co-ops rise above

stories high

the concrete below sinking a quarter of an inch

every year because

it’s on top of a swamp

Where Co-op city in Bronx, NY kids run deep

killing each other

On top of garbage dumps

children play

babies laugh in playgrounds

playing ball the little ones miss the basket

because their little hands are so small

and the basket towers above them

looming…

They miss the basket

The elders teaching the babies…

“Its okay, try again, “ he says.

Keep trying We say. Don’t give up

because the fighter

who gives up before the game is over

dies.

I don’t know what a hopeful world looks like.

Only hopeful moments.

Moments where my little babies laugh and

their laughter turns into disorganization –

heads shaking, eyes rolling back,

yelling, “Don’t touch me.”

“I won’t touch you,” I say, “I’ll only stay here by your side.”

Stay by my side I say and so you do.

But not until you’ve beaten me. Beaten me and I’ve kicked you.

You’ve held me down and so I’ve bitten you.

You grab me and so I push you.

But you win.

You win because you push me down, down into the couch.

I can’t leave.

You won’t let me.

But I won’t let you win next time.

Next time I’ll fight back more and more until there’s nothing left.

There’s only dust.

Dust and garbage.

And high rises.

High rises filled with dope and love.

Heroin and eyes. Watching, waiting.