Liberty Spits Fire

“Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!” – Emma Lazarus
I have known rivers deep,
shallow
Filled with silt and debris
Clouded by a doctrine, I can’t read.
A homage to my eyes
filled to overflow
Danced over your snow white mayonnaise brand skin.
Trying to unlock secrets and power,
I drove the back of Africa
Black power
White feminism
Celebration. Movement.
Took a right at police brutality, saw no change
The white owl fists Vlad the Impaler for
one generation
In 7 generations
For the 12th generation
Bones old and unchanged
fighting the same game as generation one.
The words I speak dipped in bleach and still they burn your ears
It’s never enough
Somehow you’ve blinded you
Can’t even feel blood soaked hands
Cries fall on nothing
So far that you can stay in your bubble while
Generation 7 became a limited edition exhibit
One day you’ll wonder why I’m not here
But like my Native American brothers and sisters,
It didn’t happen
if we’re not there
Because what other
And what others
Is what I call
Where did your right to invade and ride me like the
Sublime pus-festered wound you think I am come from?
Did it come from the flag of white in your hand?
The blue stripes that tie our hands?
Or the fifty white daggers that paint red on our land?
Drink your Earl Grey and Green
While I die with every swallow
Every brew
Before I kill you, too