Between Huey And Malcolm (2015)

Dr. Huey P. Newton had an epiphany and then said, “I don't expect the white media to create positive black male images.”

So he wouldn't be surprised to see how evening networks
accumulate their net worth
of billions

off assassinating the character of our children.
They “objectively” report the news about black lives, matter of factly
they spin white lies
that evolve into black lies
about black lives
because we don't matter to them
only in terms of their bottom line.

 

You see our worth in their eyes
is somewhere between feline and pigeon.
Y'all, we still less than k-9s.
Because ninjas remember how they sent that boy Mike Vick to prison,

but be the color of George Zimmerman,

a private citizen,
and you can legally murder a nigga
and walk off Scott free.

 

But Walter Scott can't flee,
and Eric Garner can't breathe,
Tyisha Miller can't sleep,
and Oscar Grant can't see his daughter no more.

Oh no, this ain't no folklore.
This is so much more.

 

Four score and 7 years ago
nah, before that.
1619
the first time them white beings
brought us to these shores,
and since then
it's been
all
out
war.

 

You see their strategies and tactics have adapted.

They went from De Jure to De Facto,

ipso facto,
they've tormented and attacked us
to extinguish the light of black souls.


Theirs is a pathological praxis.
Rooted in a xenophobic,
schizophrenic,
racially insecure
culturally immature social apparatus.
Which forces them to concoct a reality
that confers to them an unearned status
of unmerited advantage.
To make them feel adequate.

 

In turn
we are termed
the thugs and the savages.
Whole deck stacked against us
we victims of Bell Curves,
Intelligent Quotient averages.
Recipients of jail terms,
we residents of these ghetto pan's labyrinths.
And very few of us can survive the madness.
And for those that do
them government issued bullets
fly faster than light travels from the sun to our planet.

That 3rd Rock from the Sun.
They trying to have me Malcolm in the Middle,
nah, I'm Malcolm in the window
on Third Watch
watching over our daughters and sons.
Kalashnikov 47 cocked for them when they come,

and we know
they gonna come.
Because for us,
this land is a Robert Kirkman graphic novel,
for it feeds off the blood of our young.

We
are
The Walking Dead.

Just channeling our inner Tyrese
because we ain’t destined to make it passed

the first few letter boxes of the first few sheets.

We are

akin to proteins and fatty lipids in the belly of the beast.

Our appendages
are the meat of fleshy mangoes
stuck in teeth.

To be plucked and sucked in moments after the feast.

Now let that digest.

Yeah, I know these words hit hard to the gut like dysentery.

Or hard to the brain like religious missionaries

colonizing souls and minds.
No matter how you reduce it,

pain is the protocol.
You either die or revoke your past
or try to pass as something you’re not
on that Rachel Dolezal.

 

But, ya’ll, we can't opt out.
We can't drop out.
Especially when them cops is out.
That index itchy when them guns come out.
We go to sleep dreaming at night wishing it would all run out
and be replaced by something different when the sun comes out.

But day breaks
and the morning is here,
and we find ourselves in mourning again.
And I don't want to see
anymore mornings
where we mourning kith and kin.
So I guess it means
that we're back on that Malcolm again.

In essence it only means we want one thing.

We declare our right on this earth to be a man,

to be a human being,
to be respected as a human being,
to be given the rights of a human being
in this society,
on this earth,
in this day,
which we intend to bring
into existence by any means necessary!

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