Don’t Steal My Art

I stand before you grounding myself

Planting myself in this spot.

Not like a seed in Mother Earth

Not like a man’s seed in the womb of a Nubian Goddess

I am standing here before you.

Physically speaking.

Man.

Physically speaking.

I am not the person who shouldered a nation.

Not one whom has picked up arms against the White Devil Establishment.

I didn’t bring with me tools from the Motherland

Or awoke with nightmares of being chained with my African brother’s songs keeping me alive.

Or having the spirit endowment of a continent that is in fear of castration.

Nope.

I’m just a Black Man, born in Harlem, to a teen-aged mother

Who’s father was too caught up in irresponsibility and fucking other Ho’s to stick around.

So why am I up here before you?

I’m here to inundate whomever listens with

words of metaphysical expletives,

then have those words bounce back many times

thus giving me a semblance of a room full of self gratification

and maybe,

just maybe I’ll get it through to a third party.
Become bought.

Finally understand the voices of  Black Poetry.

I mean, I saw the pyramids of Egypt and they didn’t call to me.

I felt the sands of my African ancestors between my toes

…. and by the way, it did more to burn my corns than emotions of traditions lost.

I saw the chains that were used to bring my ancestors to the shores of America.

Ivory Coast to Plymouth Rock.

And I wasn’t mad.

I was more informed if anything else.

Milk and honey that fed mankind,

Rice and beans the food of a nation.

Goya … Oh Boya and 2 for $2.99.
I had food for thought and on my table.

What I guess I’m saying is that I know where I came from.
I know where I am.

And with the resource of mind, body, and spirit, I know I’ll be all right in the future.

I am not lost.

So I ask,
where is my Black poetry?

Where is my hate.

Where is my poor.

I know my History first hand.

I haven’t been whipped, stripped, dipped, raped, castrated, or fucked over.
I don't sing the Blues
and Rap in Rage.
My soul music sooths
and my Jazz music grooves,

so where is my Black poetry?

I can’t see a Celestial Gate held open by a King of Kemet

Or the ancient embodiment of an Isis something or another.

I don’t see African blood washing to the shores of an evil nation,

Or the bludgeoning of a young mind by a legion of devils who fear my penis when I walk into a room.

I never felt it, never saw it, never really cared about it like that.
My conversations with GOD is loving.
My kisses with my Mother loving
and I have my father's eyes.

So where is my Black Poetry?

I am a Black Man

That I know.

I know I can’t escape that shit.

Call me African-American,

call me Nubian,

call me Hemetic,

call me a Warrior,

call me a person of color,

call me a Son of Shabazz,

call me a Son of a Bitch.

But if you have an issue with any of that, I have a Ph.D. in Psychology
so you can call me direct too.

I’m paid by the hour and I round up for the extra minutes.

First initial visit is free
cause I know how you all like the free shit.

Ignorance aside,

I am Black.

Darker than most, privilege even less.

I know I lost 10 cool points from birth

And you know what?

I’m not pissed off cause I always liked being the underdog.

The underestimated.

In me, in you, in her, in him, in us.

Minus 10 cool point for everyone.

We all live in a minus 10 cool points of society.

We are a family of Underdogs.

Minus 10 out of a scale of 1 to 10.

And speaking of Dogs, I’d like to tell you that I cheated before.

I cheated several times.

And did that shit come back on me like a wave of Bad Karma.

You damn right.

Put my Black Ass in the hospital.

So now that I suffered,
I felt that pain.

Where is my Black poetry?

I live alone.

Up in Harlem.

And since then,

I’m still waiting for it to come back.

By the way of time I’ll reach an over ripe, lineal age of half over the hill

Eating cat food,

piss poor health care,

Clintonized ……

and living in a building full of White folk.

Yeah, that’s when Harlem will be back.

I can’t wait.

Along with that last living Black poet.

I missed the Million-Man March

But I sucker punched a cop at the Million Youth March.

I got back 1 cool point for that.

Now I keep thinking “They got my ass on video.”

Like that show on American’s Most Criminal or something.

Yeah, then I’ll get snatched up and serve 40 years for a crime I tried to lie about and said I didn’t commit.
And still I won't get it.

So somebody tell me,

Where is my Black poetry?

 Cause I ain’t got that much time.

Work is the sole property of Shazza Nakim and is published with written permission by the artist.

 (c) Copyright 2013