If punk rock is a church, it will be a Black Church.
And if punk rock is a Black Church,
it has already burnt down.
I can still taste its ashes in my throat.
Everywhere, sweat. Everywhere, blood.
And of course, what is more holy
than the crucifixion,
or the moshpit
or a slaughterhouse?
It’s as if those flailing bodies just caught the Holy Ghost
but those bodies were white.
Those limbs never pulled out tambourines from their purses;
I imagine them reaching for guns
at the end of every chorus.
They never raised their hands up in surrender
or in fear,
instead, those hands threw punches.
They caught the spirit
and then kicked it right in the ribs
again and again and again
and still demanded encores.
If punk rock is a church, don't forget how sacred it is. Continue reading
How to be Black
dream of gunshots
the ones that go through your own head and keep moving
the ones with bullets embedded in your brain
the kind that are engraved with your family tree
dream of murder.
remember, genocide is generational
the same blood rushing out of your head and into the street the street the streets our streets
remember who you are
genocide is in your blood
and everyone can smell it
they just choose to ignore it.
What I Think About When I Think About My Body
I consider this body to be a little too much for me.
I consider this body
and I shudder.
I consider my mouth,
how it feels too empty.
This voice is too soft for this body;
it is young and doesn’t know how to say “No.”
It does not know how to take up space.
It still trembles at the sound of Man. It will not listen to this body. Continue reading