Ink Spots

Suffering in silence is second nature
for people wrapped in hated skin;
your life under constant siege because
you are a scourge on sight;

a blight in expensive sneakers,
a member of a caste unworthy
of empathy but if you can
somehow Dinesh D’Souza
your way through existence,
everything will be fine.

The Stanford Prison Experiment
was a glimpse of human savagery
put into a uniform;
now state sanctioned violence
continuously batters black bodies
recording at 30 frames per second;

blood sacrifices in HD.

No wonder we have to Frantz Fanon
and Diane Nash our way in these streets;
there’s no polite way to take freedom,
especially when the playbook is rigged.

We must be born with King Herod’s
proclamation coursing through our veins,
the cursed sons of Ham
onto which all the ills of
Western society can be blamed.

Athleticism & entertainment value
makes us palatable and appalling;
phallic and hyper-sexual provenance
sparking unmuted rage.

No matter what continent,
confident we will remain,
walking targets
for those with perfect aim;
our eradication, chess moves
in an ongoing Endgame.