Black Poets, White Poets,
all dead in a hundred years
We are few, we are powerless
The words we speak sound ferocious
but fall empty against the backs of the masses
the dead bodies of the last generation
into the shallow graves of history
to occasionally be dug up and re examined
As discussed earnestly over coffee and or whiskey
The Dead, The Dead, The Dead!
your dead, and mine
Waves of humans wasted in lives
oppression, reproduction and dying
is you death better than my death
is my life more than yours? is my whiteness worth its weight?
why? how? this system is old and long time f*cked up
Do you have return postage for white poets?
How much does it cost to mail this letter?
Lay me out more young dead black men,
lay them all out,
until we kill the one
the one that could save us
Lay out our white dead bodies
ravaged by ignorance fear and hatred
a long line of dead people
killed by their whiteness
killed by killing the humanness
of the non white
Posted from the white poet’s neighborhood