This is to mi hermano on the block selling ass to keep a roof over his head and food in his stomach. Hoping not to get sexually harassed by the cops and locked up for condom possession
This is to my gurls storming the pavements across the globe. From London, to Uganda, Johannesburg to Tokyo, to Dallas, from New York down to Mississippi. Check list: full beat face. CHECK/. Nasty pumps. CHECK/ red lipstick CHECK/ mase and taser CHECK and CHECK!
This is to my brothers working three jobs to make it through grad school, we see you
This is to my brothers slinging rocks to take care of his brothers and sisters, because he feels he has no other choice
This is to the writer whose puts pen to paper to note words that cut, lives that kill and deaths that heal.
This is to that young activist; who dares to be visible for those of us who too often are waged invisible
This is for full lips, thick hips and tight traps…
This is for tatted chests, scarred hearts and whipped backs..
This is for callous hands, hot-heads and sharp tongues..
This is for phenomenal men who..
This is in remembrance of those who taught that we are not the only ones..
This is for my brothers who dare to love other brothers in a revolutionary way
This is for limp wrist warriors, full of sugar, dripping honey and snatching the create energy of the cosmos
This is for the choir boys, ministers, and ushers praying, hoping and calling for Heaven—here and now—who refuses to divide black from queer, queer from male and Him into itty, bitty, homophobic bite-size pieces..
This is for the man-child, always man, sometimes child, because duality is how we make it to tomorrow
This is for the Survivors, fighting a war within, against cells unrelenting, brothers not-repenting and community to afraid to love and live in the presence of H.I.V.
We. See. You.
This is for to the sons bursting from concrete jungles, craving light, producing love and brushing gravel from their rose petals.
This is to the boys, father less and groomed into fullness by mothers with sharp tongues, thick skin and blue-black hearts.
We. See. You.
Standing head and shoulders over the weeds, thickets and storms that trouble the mind and ache the soul.
We. See. You.
Sons of Apollo. Mahogany skin deep like rivers, strong as mountains but soft and sensual as the cocoa butter that gives lips and hips glisten.
Listen, if you can, to the rhythm of your ancestors. They’re calling, watching and holding you. Nat, Malcolm, Thurgood and Assata. Hold On.
Draw upon the power of your onyx traditions. Locs, resistance and precision. Afros, pyramids and songs of nations. Love without bounds, shackles without bonds, freedom, hope and joy unrelenting. Blackness.
This is for you