Freedom was the weekend

Freedom was the weekend -
life after living dead:
living in line,
facing forward,
but unable to see where the hell we were going.

The same black hands struggling to tell time
figured it out at the same time everyday,
picking the combination to the lock
that opened the gates we rushed.

A blue sky pulled us outside,
teasing us with memories of running ‘round naked,
begging us to sprout wings
and see the world.

A black orchestra of labored breath
was finally released,
flooding our parks with laughter,
conversation and music.

Our noses widened to that smell
caked in the bottom of lawnmowers,
the smell of sun cooked concrete,
and gas stations.

Home didn’t hurry youth.
We took our time to get there,
looking for the ice cream truck,
ready to see the world we missed all week.

Love was measured
in how many minutes it took
to get where we could find it.

Anticipation wasn’t a place
but a smile,
a hand to hold,
the promise of a kiss.

And, on most days,
folk could still find heaven in
a cold beer,
watermelon
and a grill.

©05.19.2018 ebn

Give in to me

In a dream I met your twin.
Intrigued, I spoke to her,
softening skepticism
by cooing like a dove in her ear.

My petitions warmed her heart
until it opened like a flower
and I buried my face within its folds
inhaling her aroma.

Will you enjoy my champagne and
let me drink your laughter?
Without shame will you disclose yourself
like the moon upon the water,
wanting me to see your light,
and kiss you wherever I like?

Will you dive into my pool of thoughts
and swim these gentle waves,
inebriated with the evening's quietude,
by love enslaved.

Will you suffer vanity's adoring eye
and be content
to be adored while vulnerable
and give yourself without regret?

Throw your head back fearlessly
and bare your throat to what may come
while pressing your desire into me
until your hunger's gone.

©05.12.2018 ebn

I’d almost forgotten how to get into the music

I’d almost forgotten how to get into the music,
pressed by time to hover, fighting being pulled away
(by a world greedy for my life);
knowing there are depths there,
that every song has a soul,
and that there is a seat reserved for those who will stay awhile
and commune in a timeless effluvium of
good conversation
and thirst quenching libation…

©05.12.2018 ebn

Sign language

Ran across a brother
only spoke with his hands
throwing signs so furious
most folk did not understand
they couldn't speak his language
so he looked to be mad
when in fact he was just passionate
bout the truth that he had
I tried to translate for him
made me look deranged, too
and decided that the message
wasn't for all them fools.

©05.03.2018 ebn

Kanye's critics

Folk fired up 'bout four hundred years;
but last week's unpublished injustice
gets no tears.
What's more - ain't no outrage over what's right now
but so offended when some unrelated shit goes down.
Pick and choose from popular choices
to legitimize your conscience
to popular voices
then criticize perspectives
that don't ego stroke
epitomizing the pretentious -
your logic's a joke.

I realize your identity ain't your own
but borrowed from a narrative
that was etched in stone
so you can read it
and believe it
but you ain't grown
cuz you still got your eyes on
somebody else's throne.

Damned, giving up on heaven
to rule in hell,
your mind infected with their lessons;
You hear the bell?
And when I ask you bout your story,
the one you tell,
how come it sounds just like that script
that they always sell?"

©05.03.2018

Mocking Samson

Alone in this little room
full of a restless spirit
so big it is often mistaken for many,
frightening off even the bravest of souls,
I am called a monster
though I have a tender heart.
My humongous hands are feared
when they can be so gentle,
and my voice makes people shudder
because of how loud it is in their little ears.

When I am uncaged, unchained, and free
one cannot ignore my divinity.
Some call me wild and natural
(as if that is a bad thing).
Others stare, mouths gaping,
in awe of my powerful and awesome beauty.
It inspires their reverence
and awakens their envy.

    My being makes them feel inadequate.
    My beauty makes them feel ugly.
    My freedom makes them feel imprisoned
    in their own little minds.

    Their nature pronounces itself unnatural,
    by plotting against our mother,
    blaming me for their self-hatred
    because they see me as her favorite sun.

    They have practiced their madness for so long
    that they have collectively become Satan,
    always at odds with God,
    and professing to love the very son they crucify
    over and over again.

They covet my very existence
Out of their minds and unable to decide
whether they want to kill me, be me, or control me;
but they cannot love me,
so the only way they can know me
is to hunt me down, tranquilize me, chain me,
and put me in a cage
(for their safety),
so they can gawk at their fantasy
and be proud that they have conquered
one as powerful as I,
deprived me of my natural existence,
made me a living trophy
(a testament to their jealousy and impotence)
while destroying my natural habitat
so that there is no place for me to return to
if I were to somehow get free.

So I atrophy
on a rock,
trying to hold on to fading memories
and dreams infected with that traumatic excision.
I am no longer a natural creature
but something else
a reluctant and hopeless demon…

©05.01.2018 ebn