Literary arts
A friend once asked me to hang out. Remembering how long it had been since I’d last seen her, I was beyond excited to get together. It wasn’t until her response to where I resided that my excitement quickly faded. “I’ll pick you up. Where do you live?” “East Oakland.” My reply was met with an “oh…” expressing nothing but empty judgment. Now being born from the soil home to oak trees, sideshows, Kwik Way, and everything hyphy, my cultured mind couldn’t understand. I wanted so badly to reprimand her for her empty opinions based on images she saw on ABC7 news. To her, Oakland is baby Iraq.
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Oakland Youth Poets Laureate (1.6Mb)i hold Oakland’s hand
like we have known each other in all our past lives
like her wrists click for me
but some days her hand loosens its grip
so i hold tighter
‘cause i am afraid if i let go
if i leave her
i will return to find
the lines in her palms have changed direction
Oakland Youth Poets Laureate (1.6Mb)For the Black men
my love cannot protect,
you are radiant.
Your eloquence is the gun
they swear you have when they shoot you.
The speed of your tongue
is justification to stand their ground.
Your existence is the antithesis of their contentment,
for the world is not prepared for you to succeed.
You are powerful.
There is more to fear than poverty.
God, for instance, is a tricky concept always dangling
at the end of a prostitute’s tear-drop soaked in smooth
on the back of her pimp’s hand and repeated in a trick’s prayer
before sex is exchanged
for currency … currency …
currency is the negative energy that has me outside!