I am,
We are
The fuel for their fires,
The sugar in their coffee,
The vulcanized rubber tires
Of their impossibly pretentious transportation.
I am,
We are
The only work they do,
The grease between their gears,
And the motor that turns them,
Round and round and round we go;
When will it stop?
I am,
We are
Their commodity;
Their work force;
Their slave.
I can,
We can
Find a new master,
Find a better master,
Enjoy slavehood,
Sing and dance for them,
Spend more and get less.
I can,
We can
Never really escape,
Never be our own master,
Never break free from the tyranny
Of their master plan:
Work, to get out of debt,
Accumulate debt, because you work,
Repeat,
Ad infinitum.

from his hand, the cotton folded,
and from hers, she spun rough string.
then from his, the letters bolded,
but from her tongue no songs to sing.

from his heart, he felt no pumping
her cuts and scrapes had not left marks,
from the wheel, he heard the thumping,
from her eyes, she looked as stark.

their posture spoke obedience,
with feet and arms that hurt as such,
in their thoughts, all fists were clenched,
though their souls felt cold to touch.

from his hand, the paper stolen,
and from hers, the same, again,
and in his mouth, the gums were swollen,
her eyes, a place always like fen.

“respect” their cold leader once said,
“is what you ought to have.”
their labor left them feeling dead,
and for this, he had no salve.

from the thread they harvested,
they sewed him his expensive clothes,
and once the laborers felt bested,
he raised his hand, more came in droves.

An Orwellian term
used by self-righteous hypocrites
hiding behind a cloak of morality.

Wake up.

Political correctness controls the narrative
by shaming and suppressing.

It forces upon us
the “one true” ideological orthodoxy.

It eliminates decent and
makes people lie and self-censor their words.

Stand up.

We must allow others to speak
and voice their thoughts.

Some might be stupid,
so let’s expose their faults.

Some might be outrageous,
so let’s pause and defuse.

Some might be hurtful and mean
so let’s self-reflect and steel ourselves.

Speak up.

Political correctness leads to sameness
contrary to the individualism
it pretends to protect.

It is a road into slavery.
First the slavery of your mind
and later slavery of your body.

We sought a world of pleasure,
One we could not measure.
We opened our hearts to pray,
for what would make our day.
Cause we live a life so empty,
One not worthy of envy.

For so long we waited,
in search of a sign of what would save us.
But as memories faded and our lives wasted,
we found comfort in what would erase us.

Sold to slavery, prisoners of our own greed.
We sought more pleasure, now want nothing more than to be freed.
Time has flashed us by and our tears have gone dry.
And with torturous screams,
we are left with nothing but faded dreams.

"Congo mend her pain for she has mourned enough for her husband.

Congo feed the old man's  kids for his hands are tied.
Congo help her grandson he's been taken for slavery.
Congo your children.
Congo your land.
Congo your people.
Congo your riches.
Congo the natives.
Congo send her to sleep for her mind has been over flooded by the unbearable nightmares.
Congo your son has been arrested for wearing a suit. Congo the priests are being killed for spreading the word of the almighty.
Congo mothers are being ***** while men are getting killed Congo he's bleeding and you are fading.”



-Andile Ashanti

Toothless and Useless
Were not the only ones
There was also Ruthless
But we call her Ruth

Toothless and Useless
Happen to be very old
Toothless a bit ornery
And Useless
Well one understands
That she never was what one would call
Helpful

One can never know when they are born
Or even on the block
face to face
What deal you have struck to be sure
Only time will tell
And some sweetening if one must

Toothless has been with us forever it seems
She is obstinate and mercurial
She doesn’t care what you say
She cannot be persuaded
Not even with a slap
I have asked that she be sold
But they say that I am unkind and did not know her in her younger fetching days

Fetching? Look at her.
Her lips fold in upon themselves
Her skin slack and oily
Her eyes yellow
We had spectacles made for her
For what reason I do not know
What I do know is that she cannot hurt me

When I was young she had a reputation for snapping at the children
Even an adult or two
A shriek would fly out of a linen cupboard or behind a bedroom door.
She would wipe her lips after the bite

We didn’t remove her teeth
They fell out on their own
But it didn’t seem to stop her
Not with a whip or after sitting in the dark, cold hole
She is ours until she dies

Useless is as ancient as the earth under her crooked feet
She cannot sew
Nor cook
Nor clean
Nor breed
Again I ask
For an explanation
But I know we cannot sell her
She is as part of us
Like blood and bones

If it were up to me they would both be dead and gone
But Ruth has an eye on me
She stands in the kitchen in quiet innocence
She throws about seeds with a serene smile
She knows that I will alas do nothing
But attempt to avoid a bite or ask a question to a curious face that has no answer.
They are safe and I am off to Boston.

Goats eat and **** the grass of ramparts,
stupefied cannons sit, garrisoned sentries
primed for nights of buccaneers,
seared by centuries of sun. Down shadowed
cobblestoned ramps, fortified shutters
covet rifle forend and barrel,

wresting rumored slave rebellions
from the locker of history,
while languid waves whisper indifferently
a roll call of human cargo,
chattel displaced, cast to the sea.

Here history sways to sounds
of brown skinned children
at play in breakers,
laughing, shrieking, thrashing,
buoyed by time to this vaulted brick
reverberating chamber,

here a window’s light is cast
beckoning vision past the beach,
to seek the horizon Icarus like,
to fly towards beauty in terror where
an azure sky conjoins a turquoise bay.


Copyright © 2003 Gary Brocks

How can I make these whites as uncomfortable as they make me?

Comparing skintones during the summer like there's anything to compare to, y'all just wanna brag about how brown y'all like to get without having to live like a *****.

Some masturbatory self ****, too pretentious to go to a tanning booth, but too cheap to treat ya skin right,
Y'all know that sunscreen is a must, but all I can think about when I go to the beach is tomato soup.

Y'all are the real red skins, but still dare to call yourself dark when y'all don't know what shade is. I can sit under an umbrella with long sleeves all day and still be brown by the time Autumn dries out the Summer leaves, I know y'all can't say the same.

Does it make you uncomfortable that I can other y'all?

White folk. Cracka. *****. Yall think that those are slurs? Where's the censor on TV then? Where's the national outrage? There isn't! But then when it comes to *****, oh then that's everybody's word. Like how ****** used to be everybody's word. Like how between ya ma-n-pops, they talk about how violent we ******* is... And y'all just listen... Complacent or uncaring, but still daring to say you're different.

Cut from a different cloth, you people got some nerve. And yes, you people, as in you white folk. Y'all better collect y'all's trash, like how incarcerated ****** collect it off the side of busy roads for free cos slavery never ended as neatly as y'all think it did.

Will y'all ever be uncomfortable over the right things?

Over black children being set up to go to prison from the moment they enter school because teachers give them more suspensions and detentions than anyone else?

That the FBI was found guilty of murdering Martin Luther King and has harassed him til he was shot?

That Lincoln never really cared about us *******, just wanted to win the war and ******* the south, no matter who suffered the most?

My fellow Americans, white that is, because in the census you're accepted as an American without question,

Y'all don't know the meaning of discomfort.

Birds in an open cage
I’m outraged they aren’t outraged
They’re happy to be enslaved
They have the minds of slaves
Chirp, chirp, on demand
when the master commands!
They holler and stomp their feet joyfully.
Insane, like they have pea-sized brains.

They clip off their own wings
They don’t want to be free!