USA

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Sometimes (Sum of time)

sometimes
i still feel her kinky crown
resting against my chest
as she listens to
my heart's percussion

sometimes
my outstretched hand
flirts with moonbeams
streaming through the blinds' seams
and once again
i'm gently massaging her spine
like last lifetime

life-lines
on these palms speak
nubian psalms
sudan sands beneath
these nails
are the black box
connecting me to lost worlds

sometimes
lost girls
find my calm eyes
through the crowd
and we build
re-build times
re-veal minds
that were 
once pillaged

sometimes
time turns us into killers
and my younger brothers kill time
on the block
stabbing the clock
tutankhamens reduced to common hustlers
rocks stashed in socks

sometimes
the sum of time
is only realized at funerals
as u realize u'll never
have a chance to make peace
with the deceased

sometimes
my mind is my prison
even when i freestyle
because it hurts to know
it hurts to learn,
the apathetic dance through life
while i burn

sometimes i'm told
that i think too much
most times i think
that i don’t think enough

sometimes the clock
clocks us with a sucker-punch
catches u with a left-right
deer in the headlights
minute and second hands
with brass knuckles
muscle u at midnight
sometimes the sum of time
is realized in a lost love
and moments vanished

the sum of time
is color blind
we can't run
even the dumb & blind
can't hide behind numb minds
and thinkers are underlined
as prime targets for
the clock's buckshots

none of us can run

the sum of time
is color blind

the sum of time
is color blind

Veteran's Day

"Miss... can you spare
some change
towards a warm meal?"
a request met with cold shoulders
over and over

death
death is in the eye of
the beholder

some see death in the mirror
and some see mirrors
in everyday people

me... i see a lot
as i stand at the bus stop
with my knitted cap cocked
awaiting the number 18
springtime afternoon
seemingly average
the season produces music
to soothe this savage
winter wasteland
out of my existence

rotating deep within beats
i roam inside my headphones
zoned, jingling change in my pocket
for the mother ship ride home

standing on the corner of eagle
and state street
my mind state placed deep
musically focused

almost too focused to notice
the fifty-something professional
her nose high tide splashing against the rocks
of gucci sweatshop leather and cases brief
lexus mentality standing at the bus stop
she leafs
through books with bloodshot caffeine eyes
that tell obscene lies speed reading covers
oblivious
to
pages

i have no time to read her
i’m in my own zone
mellow    irie
rhythm entranced

in fact
were it not for the foul
all too tangible tendrils of her nicotine
running hostile through my nostrils
i probably wouldn't even notice her coldness
but today i'm high off melodies
higher than her nose is

reading only my book’s jacket
she takes a few steps back
taking cover from my cover

young brothers with dreadlocks
and baggy jeans = muggers
when you only read covers

but i pay her no mind
the city is full of books for her to ingest

here’s one now...
the bus stop drops 30 degrees
as she sees... him
...death

unclean nomad
death staggers tired, scorned
his hope long lost
he is a mirror image cast aside
she treats him like the sun
not wanting to be blinded... her eyes run
hoping he'll pass her by and go somewhere to lie
on his dirty park benches
living his senseless life sleeping beneath newsprint

his smell tells stories she doesn't even want to begin to read
around his neck he wears a sign that says he's a veteran
written in jagged, scrawled, hungry lettering

his name isn't really death
that's just the title her averted eyes worded
and branded on his cover

he's another mirror painting horrors clearer
than any cinema
her nasal hairs singed
death’s breath makes her cringe
she knows what comes next
purse tight against her chest
she steps into the invisible armor
of silence as he clears his throat

"Miss... can you spare
some change
towards a warm meal?"

his voice is articulate yet limited by hunger
"you see... i'm a veteran and..."
but she is looking through him
her eyes telling him
that he is a headache that she wishes
she could shake with two excedrin

she doesn't even have the courage to look in is eyes
and say
no
or even to utter the usual "get a job" jargon
she just looks away trying to wish him away
trying to erase his shattered mirror from her world

a mirror clearer than any glass at macy's or lord and taylor
i'm not one to read book covers
so i can't say for sure what she sees in him
maybe she has an older brother
who was scarred in the same unnecessary war
maybe it’s the possibility that it could have been her
staggering around albany treated like death
asking for spare change towards life
day and night

whatever the reason
she sidesteps his eyes
and he doesn't look surprised or even hurt
this has become a ritual for him
he is accustomed to being ignored
looked past and cast aside
unsure of where he stashed his last ounce of pride

and in one single moment of clarity
i realize her identity
... she is ms. amerika
and he is a poison excreted from her nucleus
into her darkest coldest areas
hiding in its own misbegotten wealth
amerika has become afraid to look at itself

he turns away from her tundra
expecting rejection he turns to me 
for some spare change towards life
looking into his eyes i can see that he's not death
he tells me that he is a veteran
and i read past his covers
before i excavate pockets

i only have one dollar and 75 cents
three quarters more than i need for the ride home
so i produce three metal chips
and he smiles through cracked lips and random teeth
elated with the gift placed in his hand
multiplied in his eyes 75 grand

"god bless you, brother"
he says as he staggers off
lost in an unseen holocaust of
averted eyes and perverted lies
he and i aren't all that different
separated on the surface by color, but still brothers... 
books that amerika judges
by covers

i know that three quarters in change won't
change much
in the long run

when it's all done and said
i'll never have enough change to change "death's" life
"death" is in every city
and my spare change can only change so much
my only hope is that i have put a dent in his lament

but... have i?

one block away a businessman, mr. amerika turns away "death"
i wonder how "death" manages to survive
in a nation whose neglect manufactures "death" like breath
to lay in alleyways, under a Magnavox box, or on cold steps

he staggers off
... lost

the 18 pulls up and i climb aboard
followed by ms. amerika
i slip back into the comfort of my music
but my thoughts are still of "death"

he's fallen apart
and assembly is not required
in amerika

he's come apart
while she takes for granted
misbegotten wealth

he's fallen apart
and amerika is afraid to look
at itself

untitled

why do we as men
live for confrontation?
is it jealousy?

i mean, young girls bleed transitional blood
blood that establishes them as passageways
for sweet life to enter bitter world

while men on the other hand
pick fights before they are ripe
so that we may rush our young boys overseas
to bleed gallons...
...and for what?
hollow victories abbreviated with D days, V days,
or whatever the hell they call it?

what do we bleed for?
if we could create life
would we need war?

C4 bricks 
explode in a mind
blind with rage
towards  loose lips
or another man who
accidentally stepped on kicks

i try to apologize, but...
scuffed up nikes
lead to a fight
hard left
followed by two rights
right to the thinker
in the blink of an
i
am on the floor
blood traveling face’s length
patience is bent

fists clenched	and i rise

blind		thinking	to myself

	someone	must		die

as i swing visionless off the moment
another man hopeless	shedding blood for no reason

forgetting the very reason

why

i

wrote this.

Untitled Love

descending on a city park
the episode starts:

"there's no line smooth enough
to do you justice,"
he said
"but if you would do me the honor
of engaging me in conversation
i'd certainly be the most fortunate brotha alive."

she let her timeless smile bubble past
her strong stern mask
that she had been forced to mold
at the age of 13 when her breast size multiplied
before her eyes and

the

boys

began
to

flock

flocking boys holding their toys
with thoughts of... but that's another story
on the day at hand her smile blossomed
and his heart leapt with relief
at her nonverbal confirmation

he was transfixed
with her eyes dark
chocolate skin
slim but thick
figure ...four
his legs were locked
by her essence

she swam in his eyes as well,
they were soft
and she could tell
this brotha had shed many a tear
there was something about him
that she could trust
that she could love

his eyes betrayed his
hard cornrowed exterior
and defiant diddy-bop

she played with one of her dreadlocks
as they began to walk into one another's worlds
through words
they spoke of life
love
and the fact that
all black prisoners
are in a sense political prisoners
they spoke rivers
night stars
and roads paved with pain
and joy

on the park bench
afternoon became evening
and still they had no thoughts of leaving

he looked deep into her soul's windows and said,
"i hope this doesn't frighten you,
but i think i may be falling in love."
she smiled and told him
she had no fear in his presence...
only comfort

she noticed that his left eye never blinked
and a scar traced that side of his face tragically
she wanted
to know all of his pain
she wanted to end it
send it where it would never again
touch his beautiful heart

he told her that he had seen her a week ago
on lark street
but she had disappeared before
he could voice his heartbeat

that was when he hung his head
and said that he would know no peace
because he could never know her touch
due to forces beyond his control

not understanding him, her brow furrowed
and at that moment
somewhere in the park a gun sparked
children screamed
a lonely basketball abandoned
bounced
amidst the chaos

and when it all cleared
her new love was nowhere to be found
and lovers walked and children played
as if nothing had just happened

had
it
happened?
~
puzzled
she stumbles back to the rest,
her world a whirlwind spinning intense
making no sense
where had he gone?
no number
no address
to reconnect

she falls down onto the love seat
clicking on the evening news
she watches from another world
as the reporters lips move slow motion
describing a shooting
25 year old man
shot in the face yesterday in Lincoln Park
died this morning at 7 AM
no suspects yet
her head shakes at yet another ghetto death
.......

her heart skips seven beats
as the victim’s face on screen
paints impossible scenes

25 year old man
who passed at 7 AM this morning
was
her
same
vanished love,
the one she had met
at a half past noon

the answers spin with the room
it all falls into place:
wound on face,
dead eye,
his fear that he would never know her touch,
it was all there
vivid yet unclear

she heaves dry
prelude to a weep
until
soothing dark chocolate hand
caresses her cheek,
she looks around
and is alone

tragedy married
the sweetest thing
she'd ever known

Ebony Rose Petals

the moon petals
rise
and set
to my sun lips
drinking the teary tides
that she rides,
the product
of
her
eyes

heavy lids
soft
mocha soldiers
sleep deprived
triple optic wide
world bearing hips
lips made up... without.

she needs nothing caked
on her life clay

kinky wildfires
rise from soil of skull,
sun-children lulled
to sleep by melodic beat
which she smuggled from
her mothers womb
half a world away

passed though middle
saw
her king bullet riddled
fire hosed
dogged
beat
in the streets
of selma
and still the rose rose and
held it together

the rose rose to provide shelter
& melt the ice from my heart
spark the fire
strike the iron
to get this lion’s claws flyin
in the correct direction
to keep this Sun loving
even between erections

with every full moon
i find resurrection

rose petals settle on my mind
in them i find the answer...
no question.

© All Copyright, 2000, Marcus Kwame Anderson.
All Rights Reserved. Printed By Permission.