Church Shooting

The crucifix
Burns my skin

The innocent
Suffer most
Before the sun
To a permanent

You don’t need
To give up

You don’t need
To kill

Christ Carpentry
And a nail
In the apex
Of soft skulls
Terminal Children

There have been fathers
For “sexuality”
Developed years
After their date of death.
All justified
With the name
On their coffin

The rounds
Aren’t only for
Metallic dangling
Cross hair
Around their neck
Fighting for their righteous cause
But for the small hands
And the distant dreams
Worth the fight

For them
They pray
To a tyrant
With a lower case t
Housed in
A coffin
With stained glass windows

Clean Caucasian Hands Type, Type, Type

I don’t have the powder
To blow the lid off
And scalp like Indians
Search through the pink pudding
For one of the keys
Tempting, mouth watering

I don’t have the power
I once had
The army of cotton pickers
And backs carved
Like a cutting board

Like a river flowing backwards
Towards the rape
And demise
Of the poor white woman

Like The Birth of a Nation
our topics our issues our third degree burn buttons
things in life that make us ripe with disgust

Ready to pull the trigger
Ready to live in the Negro penitentiaries
Ready to spit on the white judge, with the white prosecution, with the white defendant, with the white jury.
With the white government, with the white neighborhoods, the white institutions.
The white words we speak,
The white steps we take,
The white actions we make

The best story ever written is of a child being born
Living until they can read
And committing suicide

Tis the next great American novel
Overwhelmed and apathetic
Ready to give up

Like ready to accept the face value if marked with a low enough price tag
A pitiful white price tag
The highest of negro price tags

Like In God We Trust
Like the fall of democracy
Like the status Quo
Is maintained through legislations decisions
to protecting your right
to lynch
with bullets
and not get your hands