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Igorgoldkind Feb 2018
Today was every other day.

My boss says
"Hey Joe, where you going with that staple gun in your hand?"
I draw a blank on my face and turn to face his
.
"You don't really know, do you, Joe? 

You don't know where you're going.

You don't really know who you are.

You don't know much of anything anymore,

Do you now, Joe?"

Then he laughs at me 
In front of everybody
He laughs and points at

What everybody but me can see.

And everybody laughs and they laugh and they laugh

But nobody talks to me anymore.
My boss don’t talk to me anymore.
My neighbors don’t talk to me anymore.

My girlfriend don’t talk to me anymore.

My doctor don’t talk to me anymore.

My mother don’t talk to me anymore.
My father don’t talk to me because 

He's long since gone

Flown far away from the words to this song.

I call my girlfriend up on the telephone

She says,  "Joe, I'm not your girlfriend anymore"

And hangs up the phone.

Nobody talks to me anymore.

I call my doctor on the telephone

He says, "hello, is there anybody there"?
I say, "it's me, Joe, doctor help me, nobody talks to me anymore!"
My doctor coughs and hangs up the phone.

Nobody talks to me anymore.

I call on my priest in the church down the road

I say "Hello, Father? my Father, is that really you?"
"Please tell me, dear Father, what should I do?"

My priest says "Joe, God don't love you anymore"

And throws me out through God's front door.

Even God don't talk to me anymore.

So, I go down to a bar to have a little swim.

There's a bar stool there where the Cross should have been

The bartender looks at me,
But he doesn't say a word.

I hold up *******  pointing up at the sky
So he pours me a double, ten-year-old rye.
Which I toss down and motion for another
All the while calling him "my brother".
The bartender stares at my face
As silent as the stone sleeping inside of that wall.
Nobody talks to me anymore.



On the street, the headlights blind my blinking eyes.

Strangers push past me, some I know, most I despise.

A cop car pulls up and flashes his bright light on me

The cop points his flashlight in my eyes so that I can't see.
But we already know, there's nothing he or I need to say.

He won't arrest me.
It just ain't worth it to talk to me anymore.

A ghost walks up and stares into my face.
He doesn't say a word; 
just hangs there in space
And  spins ribbons of colored lights

Inside my head.

There's no knowing with ghosts no more
The dead don't talk to me anymore.

Suddenly I see an explosion of lights

There's trumpets and harps and angels in sight
A liquor store, neon vision of light
Promises me the spirits of salvation
 and delight,
If I just step inside.


While next door, a gun store slowly cracks open its door . . .

I am my father and my mother's son and

I’ve never before bought me a gun,
But nobody, nobody talks to me anymore.

Igor Goldkind © 2018
Written in January;  predictive enough but sadly not amazingly so.
sara galluzzo Jan 2018
I sit disgustingly high on my throne
Looking down at those who don't share the same pigment
A sliver plate was placed in front of me at birth
On it had everything i’d ever need
Financial stability, a house, clothes
Food, parents, education, safety
My heart pumps nothing but racism through my veins
An artery of cruelty and death

I strongly believe that ‘diversity’ equals white genocide
More of them means
Less attention on me  
Confederate flags litter my house
My car, my clothes
A simple reminder of the good ol’ days
Kicking them, Kidnapping them, Killing them  
My life is now
Being waited on hand and foot
My every move watched
My every need taken care of
My husband
As rich and powerful as he is
Through his fragile and egotistical nature
Shows no mercy to me and my kids
I will never struggle to provide for my family
I started my life on the top of the ladder
For my skin is my privilege

Someone is lying….

If i showed you a mere glimpse of my life
And the world’s nearly unbearable
Weight on me
Would you believe it?
I carry a list of illnesses from A to Z
A suicidal uncle who no longer shares
the same air as me
Colour, race, and religion
Hold no limitations to my pain
The day in ,the day out
Cold, Suffering
I will not be constricted to
the rules set on whites
By whites
I am defined by my actions
I stand before you as I am
I am well read and independant
Fiery and calm
I walk my path with integrity pulling my head high
And shoulders back strong

I am made from my experiences
I am not constrained to my personal history  
I was taught this social cancer
But surely, this can always be forgotten  
For my skin is my privilege
And my privilege is being me
Hodan Khalif Dec 2017
if only someone could rise from the grave,

and tell me what lies beyond this world,

perhaps I’d wake up knowing,

heaven isn’t like this,

that it won’t stink of dead children,

that english won’t haunt our tongues,

that it isn’t discovered by Colombus or another white man who seems to discover everything for us,

that its rivers won’t be flowing with our ancestors tears

and its homes won’t be built on their steel-like spines,

because maybe, heaven won’t know grief like black mothers,

won’t have to soak in the injustices white terrorism scattered,

wont bleach out my history and skin,

because if even in heaven my people are refugees,

if they’re still numb ****** and foreign speaking terrorists,

if my existence is still a cause of discomfort for the ‘normal’ folk

then past the grave ,

nothing but stillness awaits people like me,

but at least all this pain and violence won’t follow us to the grave,

coz’ if even if our lives were designed for wounds and pain,

it won’t be here,

At least my grave,

Won’t take my life twice.

// If heaven is still like this
Story Oct 2017
What we idealize
We condemn.
Strip it from the backs
Of those we oppress,
Notwithstanding ourselves.
Cram it in a box marked “DO NOT TOUCH” -
A false preservation.
Fasten wonder and difference in
Wax-body museums.
The overture of youth, displaced.
Forcibly removed and
Compartmentalized until
Homogeneity reigns supreme
In the halls of collective memory.
Admonishment replaces admiration.
The administration demands -
How dare anyone have what
We stole from ourselves?
it is not a hot topic, a heated issue, highly charged or a ‘controversy’
it is white supremacy. it is white supremacy. it is white supremacy.
it is white supremacy. it is white supremacy. it is white supremacy.
it is white supremacy. it is white supremacy. it is white supremacy.
it is white supremacy. it is white supremacy. it is white supremacy.
it is white supremacy. it is white supremacy. it is white supremacy.
it is white supremacy. it is white supremacy. it is white supremacy.
it is white supremacy. it is white supremacy. it is white supremacy.
it is white supremacy. it is white supremacy. it is white supremacy.
it is white supremacy. it is white supremacy. it is white supremacy.
it is white supremacy. it is white supremacy. it is white supremacy.
it is white supremacy. it is white supremacy. it is white supremacy.
it is white supremacy. it is white supremacy. it is white supremacy.
it is white supremacy. it is white supremacy. it is white supremacy.
it is white supremacy. it is white supremacy. it is white supremacy.
it is white supremacy. it is white supremacy. it is white supremacy.
it is white supremacy. it is white supremacy. it is white supremacy.
it is white supremacy. it is white supremacy. it is white supremacy.
it is white supremacy. it is white supremacy. it is white supremacy.
it is white supremacy. it is white supremacy. it is white supremacy.
it is white supremacy. it is white supremacy. it is white supremacy.
it is white supremacy. it is white supremacy. it is white supremacy.
Brent Kincaid Sep 2017
The rich never starve
So they don’t understand
When others do.
They have no earthly idea
What the starving folks
Are going through.

They are being taught
By those that have cash
That poor are lazy trash
And it’s fine to ignore
When they suffer.

If the poor were wise
They would choose another
Better way of living.
They’d surely not starve
But would rather carve
Out some way of  life
That brought wealth to
Their kids and their wife.

It’s got to be something
That the poor has done
To make them into
The neediest ones.
They should even work
For some fast food place
Because being poor is
A huge, social disgrace.

And the women should stay
At home with their kids
The same way our mothers
Of yesterday all did.
It’s shameful the way
The poor make their spouses
Work at jobs all the time
Outside of their houses.

The rich never starve
So they don’t understand
When others suffer.
They fail to accept that
We are their sisters
And their brothers.
Brent Kincaid Jul 2017
We are allowed to be unkind
To the sick, the deaf and the blind.
We gladly toss them into a ditch.
They don't matter; They are not rich.
We giggle and count what we’ve got
Laugh uproariously at those who have not.
We call our poor neighbors our inferiors
Because having money makes one superior.

It also works the same with every race.
Supremacy is about the color of your face.
It starts there and moves to include nationality.
Only Caucasian Americans match our reality.
Sure non-whites can pick our cotton for us
But, as for equality, the concept will bore us.
It says in the Bible you have to be from here
And white and Protestant, those words are clear.

And this stuff about **** and lesbians too
Not one word of that civil rights stuff is true.
My preacher told me gay people are abomination.
That’s why us Republicans support segregation.
That's some of what is wrong with our schools
Somebody has been listening to communist fools.
We need to get back to the good way things were
Before all this equality stuff was allowed to occur.

I tell you the truth, this stuff totally makes me burn.
I mean, these college-warped hippies need to learn
That this country is a Christian one, since beginning
So, we don’t want this equality stuff you’re selling.
Just shine our shoes and park our expensive cars
And we’ll tip you a little bit and there you are;
Right there in the place all of you ought to be;
Freedom is for us rich whites, it’s American history.
Martin Bailes Mar 2017
Somebody Else's Babies ... or a poem for Steve King a Republican
Representative of our esteemed governing classes who recently
came along with another jaw-dropping piece of White Supremacist
******* ...

'Somebody else's babies'
grew up in this green &
pleasant land to go on to
fight & die in the American
War in Vietnam, & the two
unforgivable invasions of Iraq,

which is far more than you
did Steve King,
you draft-dodging,
tough-talking patriot you,

so when you next wake up
calling out 'our destiny' maybe
you'd like to visit some graveyards
& pay some respect,
you empty-headed
Republican fool,

oh & glance back through history
awhile & even cheat a bit by using
google quotes & get some sense
of who else in the history of the
20th century crowed about
'our destiny' ... you malignant
fascist you.

Calling it today!
Martin Bailes Mar 2017
Did you see it?
That brother can do it
oh yes indeed he can,

like a young trout at dusk,
in a sweet still lake,
like a pouncing cheetah,
from many yards out,
like Wille May in the outfield,
for a soaring high ball,
like the most monstrous of great whites
rising from the dark depths & exploding
out of the ocean seal prey all clenched
in its merciless jaws,

like a cobra after transfixing its quietened mark,
like the most glorious of lithe pole vaulters,
like the most dandy of sweet young gymnasts,
like the great bull Magic Johnson springing over all & slam
dunkin' that rocketed ball as the whole court is helpless & the
people rock & its more points on that board,
that brother did it

just tore that Southern Hate right on out
of their White Pride hands,
brother just plain did it.
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