Citizen

Ain’t united,
Ain’t the same.
Shouldn’t have to say
Black Lives Matter
but we do
because for some,
it don’t.

Protestin’

ain’t producin’
a solution.
Hashtags & videos
ain’t savin’ lives
(but then again, neither are police)

Can I call it

a sad day
when an army veteran
becomes a sniper,
kills police,
and is referred to
as evil?

or do i call him

a Hero
who took action
against injustice?

Congress

ain’t the solution
Laws
ain’t the solution
Body Cams
ain’t the solution
Conversations
ain’t the answer
 

Change the Culture

amerikkka

Until you can

see me, us, we,
as humans
this climate
will continue
 

And I will

continue
to be
unsafe

©2016 Clarence Barbee

In Response to Burning Houses

I don’t want to

post no more

protest poetry

in response to

slain captives of this land.

No amount of

angry rhetoric

will ever bring back

those big smiles

of our brothers and sisters,

we were forced to

lay to rest.

Don’t want no more

IG memes or hash-tags

as we become

arm-chair revolutionaries

with our

push button politics

protesting crooked policies

of police who hold the power.

Malcolm told us

about burning houses

yet we refused to listen;

so now we

suffer the consequences

in flames.

As my condolences

go out to families,

I ask,

Where is the justice

in this experiment

called integration?

Where is the justice

in this experiment

called america?

There is no justice

under

body cams

or

cell phone cams

or

dashboard cams

because

lady liberty is blind,

when it comes to

Black folk.

Ri$k TaKer$

So I was messin' around in the studio with my horn, and this piece kinda came out.  If you're offended by it, great, comments are always welcome!

I’m your risk taker.

Beat breaker when the light’s shut off,

and generators turn on;

no pawn in water’s piranha;

kickin’ Rihanna’s heels

high in the atmosphere.

You don’t feel this here,

because it ain’t near

happy hour.

Showers of beer off the pier,

as your peer holds

your baby daughter dear;

never in headlights

in midnights, we take flight

to avoid fights in

Neverland.

Captain Hook took a stand,

now he’s collecting shells

at Sandy Hook.

Shook in shadows

fellows never settle for second best,

as the rest cry

gun control.

Out of Saddam’s hole

Trump emerges,

toupee splurges hair into the air,

now we got

a whole new meme it seems,

off right wing Republican dreams.

Nightmare for Mexican docs

while the

gun totin’, cousin fuckin’ Americans

plot the next stop of money’s stockpile.

Big banks pocketed

Hiliary’s shit-stained, panty-pile

while refusing to

get it clean.

America in 2016,

as white folks spin

24 hour news about

White House guest

use,

of the N word

on national tv.

Repeated on YouTube

we need a boob, to pop out

at the NBA playoffs

so old men can jack off

to yet, another

Black Beauty.

As everyone cries

duty and detriment,

but Bernie’s got the

plan of prosperity;

too bad this ain’t no

utopian society—

Or we’d give him

the key to every city…

And shut the water off in Flint,

as poison is sent

to the bones of the future.

No failure in political systems,

because ain’t no old white men

being strung up

from their power ties.

Ain’t no one tired

of the ole lies,

old wise white women

taught us in school.

I’ll be that fool

who takes the risk

of spittin’ this.

If you would like to hear me spit this, hit the soundcloud:  https://soundcloud.com/poet402/rik-taker

It

It was the mad ranting of unstable individuals scribbled on shit smeared and tile chipped walls of the subway station.  It was present as balding Russians, hopped up on pills and whiskey stumble by; reeking of alcohol, reminiscent to the odor of fecal matter in the air.  Genderless and strapped for sex on a swing, it begged for the lashes of a leather whip flung from the hands of an available lover.  Sound spiking shrills from crowded dive bars was it’s lullaby, Tuesday through Thursday. 

Carnal and massive was it’s appetite for raw onions.  It loved the way exhibitionist

would wear the hot onion rings on hard penises like wedding bands, or clung to erect nipples of Native belly dancers during the spring.  It was fire dances an lion tamers, untamed by the rigors of 9-5 living, living off the perspiration of perpetual failure, attempting to rise from guttural abuses.  It admired the feel of red satan scarves wrapped around it’s neck as oxygen became a premium, and the crowd watched un-amazed and uninspired.  

It admonished at it’s left arm, near the wrist, which held the cigarette scar it received as a toddler.  Being free always includes a price.  Gratitude was a luxury and falsehood; jagged and rough unlike that of the rim of a shot glass.  Scorned in the general public it learned to scowl instead of smile, cry instead of laugh, and love was a foreign city light years away from present location.  Silence became it’s best enemy providing solace, depression and subtle plans of grand endings.