White people protesting for liberty in Nubian Square
while reinforcing the two-party system is so ironic
that my heart is wrung of its passion, wrought of its purpose to be standing there.
I feel separated, but my body remains
That’s fine. because
Biden or Trump, we are all colonizers
We choose to forget that, though. It helps us carry on with our days
Pretending whatever we do on this land is sacred or
Warranted or
Blessed or
healing.
Maybe it is healing.
Maybe people need to believe that when they march
Past the police station
Past the construction sites of new condos
Past the black men smoking cigarettes on the corner they don’t invite to their protest
Or talk to
Or even realize are there
Past the stores and locally owned black businesses
They don’t give their money to
Past the homeless shelter they don’t know is a homeless shelter
Because the average age of an unhoused person in Massachusetts is 8
But as long as they remain hidden, they can march past
the place where the kids and their moms
are struggling to Zoom anywhere fast
And at a young age they already know that
“Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness”
was not written with them in mind.
Maybe it’s healing to march past them, right there
in the prison that is half a mile away they don’t know is a prison
Because it’s so pretty
where nobody is posing for a selfie with an “I voted” sticker
It was renovated during the Obama administration
and now it’s better than ever
The best prison with the best views of the best first city of the USA
Where the median net worth for non-immigrant Black households is $8
Where legendary Bill Russell endured a lifelong career of basketball and racism
where his own fans called him a coon, a baboon, the N word
the Celtic logo keeps smiling though. I wonder if the folks in jail can hear the battle cries
The claps on the beat like white people do
synchronous to the helicopters hovering above
igniting fear into the brains of the rest of the city watching from their phones and computers
drowning out the voices of the homies on meth mile
marching past Michael on the corner with his bum leg and Dunkin Donuts cup
Begging for change
Begging for change
He’s literally begging for change
As they march past him while gripping their purses tightly in one hand
And a black lives matter sign in the other hand
Michael’s black life won’t make the gram. He’s too real for a filter
so people ignore him and continue to march
Middle finger to the police who are there for no reason than to incite more fear
while Jodie and her strung-out boyfriend hold each other for warmth
between the dumpsters by the McDonald’s.
“No justice, no peace.”
It’s just us. No piece
of the puzzle will fit the perfect picture of truth
No false idol will give them what they want:
A list of demands that they pass to someone else
When they could just do it themselves.
But they don’t know that
Or maybe they forgot
so they march and they yell and they march
In the city that is a flea market of racism
Until they return to Nubian Square
Just to leave it again.
