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I’ve seen black sheep set in Pongola grass

Within pallid seas, differed, 

Like black buttons on a white cotton suit;

Sheep are color blind.

A bee is fine-looking,

But there’s fire in its ass.

Can the wild goat trust

The adder with inviting pelt?

Did Emmitt Till paint changes

With his blood in cotton picking towns;

The blood that called from Mississippi, 

Like Abel’s blood calling from the ground.

Death had a voice, a voice in the wind,

The wind that walked north-west

And brought a microscope

For John Public to see

How inferior to dogs we are.

As a child, I played

Ring-around-the-roses

Until I saw “Rosewood”

And heard the drums

Beaten like Rodney King, 

And the heartbeat of Cojoe

And Nanny racing

Towards the mountain of the devil,

To escape the cotton fields.

The drums are always talking.

The old south is alive and kicking high.

This is no Elvis tale. Exhume the body,

See with your own eyeballs.

No DNA can confirm

That Jim Crow is dead.

Jim Crow has a roost on Fox News.

He’s always crowing,

Whipped up by the “boy”

In the WHITE house.

How much can you see

If you look from the outside?

I’ve seen it even in REM sleep,

Even when I dream of roasted breadfruit,

Jockato in coconut milk, and Chinese geisha;

Willie Lynch is a man breathing

The smog-filled air in Washington.

In 1955, Money was the root of the evil,

And ’68 Memphis was the cross 

Of the sacrificial lamb,

But these days men are lynched

In broad day light.

String up, dangling

Like papa's khakis  floating

In breeze walking the orange glen.

All eyes should see our opinion of them.

Today we’re civilize, 

And Catholicism is not voodoo.

We no longer use rope,

Our tongues do a fine job.

Like Mutabaruka,

I have no color problem;

Everything is black to me,

As black as Sarah’s view of the motherland

(It’s not too vital for her to learn).

If blue skies

Cried acid,

And wash the dark color

From this portrait,

I would still be black,

As black as tar.

It’s in my blood.
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