Twisting through vines to catch a glimpse of
the American Dream
separated by the color of our skin
the degree on our wall and the Greens situated in our back pocket.
Noticing oblivious the pathology our nation inherited to heal.
All of us wandering dazed as one working to figure out how to cultivate peace we Yearn to feel in our HEART.
Failing over and again in bitter annoyance of ambition grown tired.
Stop the choke hold blinding the knowledge
we throw our hands up in surrender to a wiser power.
The music remembers and unites us year after year to celebrate the sacrifice of each little brown, black, red white and blue warrior trudging the waters of history.
Looking at the details in our own little puddle outside our doorstep; once in a full moon recognizing that the reflection is not the source.
Peer deeper
Touch the vessel
Hear the message when back to back suspicion removes the knife
We face the pain together Acknowledging:
One nation
Under G
Cross my heart
Honor to thee
Who die
Author: leahjoyp. MayaRose SpokenWord
The Dance of the Suits in the Garden of Eden
The dance of the suits dressed up in the costume of clever scripted dialogue
Selling themselves as;
A fine upstanding gentleman
So successful that the busy-ness call can’t wait until off the train.
Perfectly robotic speech attaining high honors in the magazine of New York life.
One more quick call to set up a meeting with pals for happy hour
Perfectly pristine
Set to the exact New England pace that has infiltrated the world.
Protein powders and power bars masquerading as food
and coffee martinis
Serving as the requirement for hydration.
Soul death and gravel white washing of authentic natural life.
Vinyl panels pretending at shutters and flickering water-showers greening the turf.
How far to go to be fed: no longer outside my door.
Drive through take-out along picket fences and stone walls.
Conventional food has become chemicalyzed GMO puke pink tomatoes while
“Normal” folks shun
Organic as the new yuppy-hippy corn movement and too expensive for my dollar menu mentality.
“Food that doesn’t kill ya” must
Be registered by the FDA for a not so nominal fee, while factory farm subsidies pay to poison our rice with arsenic and pink sludge our arteries.
Agricultural hijacking made legal and,
mainstreamed zapping the brain of human advertisers washed to belittle the nightshade: YES; the one that has not been grown in the Florida sand and fakely fertilized to imposter the deficit.
The science experiment we call food.
Bible belting advocates against our own best interest
The political genius of the century.
Don’t take my guns and leave me defenseless to diabetes, cancer, asthma and combustible water faucets.
Chop down those trees
The silent gods and goddess that do nothing but give us breathe
Valuing the cul-de-sac over
the babbling brook, wonderlust woods, generous garden and fabulous farms.
Quenching our yes for real life, while our ankles dangle,
Slushing around in the sludge we created robotically
oblivious to stepping outside to take in
the vacant lot that once tempted our vessel.
Y’es sir
Y’es sir
A no good thug
A colored boy mulatto
Not raised right
Disrespecting the law
A criminal at the core of his DNA negro
Strip him down of all his humanity
Revoke his right to vote and set him off to fight the fires of the white wealthy for chump change
But no it’s not about race
Mis-educate him and leave him to fend for himself among the chaos that is his history
We all done deserve what comes to us if we don’t keep our nose clean
Concrete wall paper and liquor store hallways are no excuse
Pull yourself up ingrate
I did it
I got by
I succeeded
No one paved the way for me
Slavery has nothing to do with the politeness I choose to put in my voice
Bus boycotts and water hose beatings did not touch my college fund
Crack, Heroine, dead beat dads and single moms has nothing to do with my inheritance of love
My suburban security and ambition has no bearing on your decision to
Act a fool
Pull your pants up and speak to me proper boy
A bullet in the head helps the heart of this civilization make peace on the dead souls of your ancestors
The Thanks not given
Happy thanksgiving
As I watch the bird flap its helpless wings, scattering the blood like paint onto the pristine white feathers; I see the bullet hole as big as its tiny head hang toward the feather bedded ground.
As I reluctantly pull the feathers crisply out of the scaly skin, I watch the words come out of my mouth as if I was a kindergartner with no other vocabulary except “gross”.
I slowly retreat back with a fixed gaze and allow the experts to do their work.
I’ve been invited back again to pluck two more birds. Two happy free range, mostly organic dinners that will joyfully be received by customers who have been on a waiting list for years.
I spontaneously blurt out no, but change my mind after participating in the sacred ritual of the gutting and cleaning.
A ritual that our ancestors could not escape and knew the process as closely as breathing.
How convenient a life we have; I think to myself the very next day, as I open the top of my almond shake and gulp down the contents.
I grew no nut; gathered nothing.
I did not press, or grind or pulverize them into a pulp.
The deliciousness of my mid-day snack was not produced by my hands.
I easily grabbed it off the shelf of the market and eagerly peeled open the packaging with admiration for its decoration.
I work, sometimes hard; sometimes not, inside a steel and wood building; upon a concrete floor, over a paved platform; in order to generate money to buy me this sustenance.
The very ground in which produces the meal is vanished among the box that serves so necessary to mine own survival.
My awareness of this is a blind dot in creating a solution to the disconnection that supports our culture.
A great sadness that I, nor the bearded hen I briefly made acquaintance with can rectify in this lifetime.


