Wednesday, April 06, 2016

Black Vampires of Cell Block 8

In the underground the black literati get drunk, do drugs, kill time telling stories about Amiri Baraka. Who is your favorite black revolutionary? Is crack your cure or do you drain blood from potential victims?

Vampiro Negra. He blows kisses at the soft boys. They hustle kitchen knives and cotton balls.

Come Casey Jones. Place your pubescent head on my chest. Let me tell you stories about Cell Block 8. Shake, Rattle and Hide when they close in for a killing. Lock arms with your battle-whipped boys. Build a wall that'll keep the goons from getting skin.

Letter to WASP. Keep it real. This ain't my deal. When I'm done I'll break out walk into your world a stronger man, catch thieves with my bare hands. Stone cold rassling. Ripped in my jeans, cut at the sides, I flex. Steroids and barbed wire. Pumping iron to the sounds of Rastas spitting rhymes.

In the heat of the day when the guards go stomping. I rise. I rise. Atilla. Nominated as 'Un. Mobbing the hard wood. Hammer and nails I build you a cupboard. We move merchandise, collect books on numerology. Your cult or mine. Cuss the great divide. We are animals among men. Make this into a covenant.

We worked the wars from Hosanna til Good Friday. Called up the gangs and woke the name Jesus. Resurrected ghosts from these walls. All God's men are numbered from one to the end. No shepherds walk these halls. The no name wolves make murder of the minds of those who refuse to sleep with their eyes closed.

Awaken. Awaken to the sounds of death. There's a new line a'coming. Fresh faces from fortunate lives having gotten a dangerous deal. We are all innocent then. Who's to tell me these hands are mine? It has folded bed sheets. Hung colorful shirts on a clothes line. How then could it suffocate, bludgeon, beat down the bones of a ne'er-do-well? I have worn gloves then, left no imprints as I do, made minced meat of the haves and have-nots.

Wise men know enough to keep away from here. If for some God-forsaken reason you find yourself among the incarcerated give up the weapons with which you fight. Let the Lord handle your pistol grip pump. Pull at the wounded souls with your eyes. Learn to watch and heal. Hold each moment as if it were a lesson, a way into life walking backwards. But with your eyes closed you can see. You can breathe breath into this, this dark world of broken souls.

But beware. It is not a life you are living. It is death. Be good at not wanting to die. Much like the world you came from march don't walk. Wish the pain of others away from your soul. Meet your enemy at the door. Don't let him enter. If he does, let wisdom carry you to the many hills you have yet to climb. Fall back gracefully.

This is your fight. Don't ever surrender.

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