if there is Dust on the furniture
in my mother's house, the symbol
is the lampshade, when the sun
goes down, we turn the lights on,
we wipe down. we concentrate.
people speak that ole talk,
somebody catches themself
falling up the stairs, somebody
whispers white man, dust cloud.
what the silent speak when/there
are no voices around to tell them,
telling is wrong, to tell them sick,
is a country, to tell them freedom,
justice, democracy, a tiny circle
where we sing heaven and breathe
hard and make smoke, this
is my rhyme, my heavy heart, my
shit spoke, so dope, young’ns choked
like it was reefer smoke. my moma
plays wordgames, my grandma plays
word games, my grandaddy casts
himself as silent in the face of men
with pistols. i like the boy screaming
out what the fuck is going on in here
way his pants sag. now I can name
disrespect, now I can say my name,
say my name, like sex, stocking caps,
a rim around the hairline, make waves,
come correct, my sister crying under
a comb, crying for my daddy to come
home. we never say that, all us gathered…
we were chasing a microphone, we
wanted the true sermon of the street
corner to become gospel, we wanted
to worship with the men who walked
in ways we couldn't, those who saved
and spent it on a cadillac of cool
lean back ecstasy and hard bass lines,
cabarets, and pulled pork, too much
hot sauce, a good christmas, we stood
in lines curving into circles, we were
waiting for the voice of God, the voice
of the ancestors, for people
who looked like us to say something
that would make words vessels
in my mother's house, the symbol
is the lampshade, when the sun
goes down, we turn the lights on,
we wipe down. we concentrate.
people speak that ole talk,
somebody catches themself
falling up the stairs, somebody
whispers white man, dust cloud.
what the silent speak when/there
are no voices around to tell them,
telling is wrong, to tell them sick,
is a country, to tell them freedom,
justice, democracy, a tiny circle
where we sing heaven and breathe
hard and make smoke, this
is my rhyme, my heavy heart, my
shit spoke, so dope, young’ns choked
like it was reefer smoke. my moma
plays wordgames, my grandma plays
word games, my grandaddy casts
himself as silent in the face of men
with pistols. i like the boy screaming
out what the fuck is going on in here
way his pants sag. now I can name
disrespect, now I can say my name,
say my name, like sex, stocking caps,
a rim around the hairline, make waves,
come correct, my sister crying under
a comb, crying for my daddy to come
home. we never say that, all us gathered…
we were chasing a microphone, we
wanted the true sermon of the street
corner to become gospel, we wanted
to worship with the men who walked
in ways we couldn't, those who saved
and spent it on a cadillac of cool
lean back ecstasy and hard bass lines,
cabarets, and pulled pork, too much
hot sauce, a good christmas, we stood
in lines curving into circles, we were
waiting for the voice of God, the voice
of the ancestors, for people
who looked like us to say something
that would make words vessels
rise, float, and carry weight so
we would not wait any longer.
