Queen Bitches

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Systemic

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Ghost Writer

Passions burning

beneath my sternum

pulsing like dancing flame

circulates through my veins

feeding rage to my brain

I avenge souls

I take aim

swinging my broken chain

Look into my eyes…

Feel the pain of your victims

those slain by your system

of justice corrupted

destructive to the lives

in your clutches

lives interrupted

feel the burn of my glare

internalize their despair

fuck that old life ain’t fair

shit you kick

cue the violin music

‘cause muthafucka I don’t care

So scream your last rebel yell

your soul is required in hell

Look into my eyes…

Feel their pain - Hear their cries

Drown in the tears of many years of broken lives

and despair...

for I come bringing justice

- HymnAgen
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Disregarded

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Terrorist States

Terrorist States

Let’s talk about

how

I RAN…

terrorized by

state sponsored

terrorism.

How

I RAN,

ran away from

Amerikkkan injustice

of the piece clutches

because that

Justice of the Peace

had his clutches

on his piece

as he approached me –

terrorizing me

on my own streets

for allegedly

fitting some

description.

Since we still

all look alike

through dark blue

hued prescriptions!

I RACK

my brain

like I’m

SO DAMNED INSANE

‘cause I can’t make sense

of this bullshit war game

anymore.

Misnomered,

the fucking “Drug War”

when it’s more like

a war on his perception

of Thugs.

But since when

is Blackness

a narcotic?

Granted

a hard dick

or a wet snatch

can get some so high

once they cum

they never go back

to their own –

unable to leave

our jungle-loving alone,

but I digress.

Who is the terrorist

when my people

feel stress

from the chance

lingering glance

of the Gestapo?

Yet, the shrinking

majority

wants to claim

this is not so…

that looking

at enforcers

without fear

in our eyes

constitutes

suspicious grounds

for being terrorized!

Giving them

the off-the-cuff

power to decide

our public assemblies

are the actions

of home-grown enemies

and thus, made

a misdemeanor.

“Break it up;

you’re loitering,”

the common

Gestapo procedure

for maintaining

intimidation

in our young male

population.

See while their hoods

receive patrols,

our hoods

get occupation.

Might as well

be in Gaza

slinging rocks

at their body armor!

Will we be forced

to resort to being

suicide bombers?

I pray

I never see the day

they live to rue.

- HymnAgen

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Black Voice

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Fatigued

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The Brotherhood of The Nod

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Here We Go Again

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Damaged Ceramics

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D.W.B.

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Their Language

I cried out in my native tongue

and they ignored me,

so I spoke to them in theirs. 

Now they hear me

loud and clearly

even over the crackle of flames

and gun shots,

because they only understand 

their own language.

-HymnAgen

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Don't Waste Your Breath!

You cannot have a dialogue with those who spew out monologues. STOP trying to explain your position to those who WILL NOT listen. When you are blue in the face you are already dead in their eyes. Eff' em!

The Last Laugh

In my mind

I am defined by my capabilities

not your perceptions and assumptions,

and those I invite to dwell in my circumference

and share in my blessings

have learned the same lessons.

We studied from the same texts;

read from the same handbooks

to avoid the pitfalls

and elude the ambush-es

so many fall victim to…

Implemented resistance to

their propaganda machine and its messages.

Counteracted their brainwashing efforts with

Truth-to-Power tactics –

debunking the manufactured

disinformation their media puppets

disseminate to the public

and expect it to be accepted

as fact-u-al

when in act-u-al-ity

it’s bogus!

Packed with distractions

promoting inaction, acceptance, and fear –

just like that God damn Serenity Prayer

posted in a frame on the wall for years

in my parents’ living room.

Perhaps you know it?

But left to our own,

we discovered Last Poets

while rummaging through their LPs and 45 stacks.

Thank goodness for the advent of Hip-Hop and Rap

that spawned “sample research”

and drove some to sift

through record collections

for new-to-us riffs –

resurrecting the passions of Gil Scott-Heron.

They were inspired.

Those voices of resistance ignited a fire in later generations

who became Public Enemies

that formed X-Clans

to become Righteous Teachers

and support Spike Lee features.

Seeking to regain the right to control our public images,

and be valued for more than our court play and scrimmages.

To project so much more than the gangsta and whore

narratives university studies explore

time

and time

and time

and time again:

What’s Wrong with African-American Men?

I contend – not a thing.

We perform as intended.

Succumbed to the protocols recommended

by the Learned Elders (of Zion) they label a hoax.

Yet we feel the effects of this ruse the most

in this so-called post-racial America.

We strive to fulfill Maya Angelou’s vision

and rise yet again

just as generations of strong Black women and men have done.

From field to the ‘hood,

from blue collar to white,

from projects to mansions

some have risen despite

every effort to keep us imprisoned

through deceptive religions,

unfunded schools

and a political system of two party rule

that behaves as the New Order of the Ages

prophesied in the pages of 1984.

Was Orwell a seer or something more?

A eugenics engineer, perhaps?

I don’t know but what’s clear

is the fears of Rodney King have yet to disappear,

‘cause many of us still can’t just get along.

So shut up with that bullsh!t Kumbaya song.

You don’t love me!

You suspect me of thuggery like it’s simply part of my genetics,

as if my propensity for violence is so deeply imbedded

in my make up I can never wake up from it.

But I assure you,

I am not sleeping.

I’m watching.

Studying.

Intently peeping out game.

Learning the ways of the devil so I don’t make the same

wicked moves when my people return to power again

to destroy false distinctions between races of men.

The Greatest Lie born of the Enlightenment error.

Conveniently told to support a reign of terror

that keeps the few in control over the many.

That transformed the frozen north into the lands of plenty

on the backs of southern labor,

through the blood of southerner’s toil,

for the theft of valuable resources

from conquered southerner’s soil.

But Aquarius is dawning

as Pisces fades to black.

Spiritually and physically,

they feel they are under attack

from Gaia’s great payback.

As the saying goes, “It’s a mother.”

Yet few exhibit any contrition for not embracing me like a brother.

But there is irony in justice.

So as all this comes to pass,

me and mine will laugh best

for me and mine will laugh last.

-HymnAgen

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Hidden Colorism

Remember when light skin

used to be in style?

I don’t

because I never felt I fit the profile.
If I was armless I could count

the number of times
on both hands the frequency

with which I was called “fine.”

You see, Papa was dark skinned,

but Mama had dominant genes,
so me and my sister slid out in between,
but with a heavy lean

in the direction
of Mama’s complexion.
And not fitting the stereotypes,
I longed to be more his physical reflection –
smooth and brown like chocolate.

But like film negatives,

I was the opposite.

With that said,

the inferiority complex

in my head

was largely sub-con-scious

until a sista on deck

looking to fix up her chicks

pointed out there were no other

light skinned brothas in my clique.

That epiphany was profound.

Had I chosen to surround

myself with homies

all much darker shades of brown

unbeknownst to me?

Even the ladies in my life

except for two

were never bright in hue.

I thought light-skinned girls

had funky attitudes.

When in truth,

it was my attitude that stank.

No one else to thank

for my internal schism.

My reverse colorism

was finally exposed.

A lack of love for my skin color

self-imposed.

I was a walking contradiction.

My sense of self

at an unhealthy juxtaposition.

So I analyzed my pre-teens,

and realized

what I had seen

I internalized.

Where I grew up

light skinned brothas didn’t seem

to get the same respect.

I recognized that disconnect.

The hustlers and thugs

was pulling chicks I couldn’t get.

And unfortunately for me

these kats were disproportionately

more melanin saturated,

reinforcing my self-hatred:

A casualty of internalized

racism with a twist.

Light skin might have been in style

but I didn’t experience it

as a net positive –

evident to me

of just how damaging

white supremacy can be –

demanding hands-on management

of my self-esteem regularly

so I don’t lose myself again…

so I can love me as I am.

-HymnAgen

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