I am sick of writing this poem but bring the boy. his new name his same old body. ordinary, black dead thing. bring him & we will mourn until we forget what we are mourning & isn't that what being black is about? not the joy of it, but the feeling you get when you are looking at your child, turn your head, then, poof, no more child. that feeling. that's black. think: once, a white girl was kidnapped & that's the Trojan war.
later, up the block, Troy got shot & that was Tuesday. are we not worthy of a city of ash? of 1000 ships launched because we are missed? always, something deserves to be burned. it's never the right thing now a days. I demand a war to bring the dead boy back no matter what his name is this time. I at least demand a song. a song will do just fine. or, a head