When Little Boys Are Dying.
Whether they are hanging from trees,
Or their abandoned Nikes are strung from telephone lines
Or their conversations take place on collect-call dimes
Whether they are living their last days in rivers
Or hold up in the cold steely gray of the coroners lair
When Little Boys are dying
Same age as my cousin
Same age as my brother when he first saw the light,
When he first felt what it is to forge one’s own destiny,
To rail against the machine that had long since given him up for dead
Dead Black Boy Storage
Also known as the morgue,
also known as the purgatory for John T. Doe
When Little Boys are dying,
Don’t bring me your speeches,
Or your rhetoric.
Your religiosity, your politicking does not excite me.
As Jesus was a man of action,
Muhammad was a man of commitment,
Buddha was that of conviction and purpose,
Yahweh is a deliverer
All god’s represent verbs.
And though all provide comfort in the after things stop
They give you recipes for the here and the now.
Our babies are dying
From a steady diet of desperation, hate, legacy, regret, kismet, neglect
They are taken
By lonely, stray, misguided, or malicious bullets
They are leaving now-ignored lovers with the scars of hearing,
and the burden of knowing
Or bellies full of their seed
When they are dead figuratively,
There should be no pacification
No mishandling, no platforms, no sensationalizing, no red, or blue,
no heaven, no fire, no brimstone
We owe them more than just selling a few papers,
More than a few days of scandal or sermons or shaking heads
More than a few moments of movements
We spawned them (killer and victim alike)
And we owe them their first as well as their last rites.