Itís 1999 and still whites only,
unless you are the security Guard
You try to wash your hands of the evidence
But itís there
The stain
That we are not there
And will never be there
And itís subtle
Subtle like the sound of the planes
Which pass overhead
Subtle like the sound of the planes
That constantly fly by
Pulling around their banners of inclusions
Or should I say lists of exclusions
Like real planes they touch down
On certain airfields
Proclaiming them historic
While balking at the airspace
Of thought which begat
Their pomp and circumstance
Lands the planes were banned
To go
Four fingers and a toe
I thought
Four fingers and a toe
The foundation of all their worldly truths
And these planes were banned to go
Because pride Drew outside
The lines of this conventionality
And refused to draw within
The lines of this paint by number
FaÁade
So you wited them out
From our page
Wited them out
Claiming that they had never
Existed
That they had never exploited
Marginalized
Xenophobinized
Left outside in the sideyard
To collect rust
Again silently screaming
Plunger in yo ass
left bloodied, abandoned
In a New York subway
Telling the roaches drinking yo spit
That you know a little sumthin'
About injustice
Still they claim you have
Contributed nothing
That some how
You must have leaned over some oneís shoulder
And cheated on you test
Debasing the ones
That has been carrying the semen
Of this shameless beast
For four score and some odd years
My people
The ones whose white knuckled
Spade black hands
Have been swinging
Axes and picks
Breaking their fucking backs
Shoveling creativity
Into the furnace
Of this olde soul Trane
For, I donít know
Some odd years
Singing
All I got is love
Love is all I got
Yet
You exclude them
Disrespect them
My people
My heroes
Again, itís subtle
Itís subtle like a butterfly
Floating discriminately
From flower to flower
Shitting out
Illegitimate Art stars
Throughout a desert
Of dying donkeys
Subtile
Like the removal of African noses
Snapped from sand stone statues
Sort of like the sound of the planes
Which fly by
You know the ones
That constantly pass overhead
With warm chameleon smiles
Pulling around their banners and lists
Forever rubbing their hands raw
Trying to rid themselves of the evidence
But it is obvious
Like a stain
We are not there
We are not there
And know
That the distant sounds
Of the planes
Will never touch ground
Cup their hands to the horizon
And call
My people
Home
My heroes
.
.
.
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