Watering Our Roots

[a "the radio did me wrong" poem]


life without music

is like a heart that stutters to the tone of silence

mute

deaf to rhythmic pleasures

nothing to yin yang the balance

treble to notes yet unfounded

product of auto-tune

we dance to the splintered mundane

toast to the ill-advised

coon for watermelon rines of treasures labeled epic pastimes

remixed the wade in the water

to shallow hums of a spat on future

tepid saliva

be-boxing

turning culture to a hip-hopped whitewashed drum cadence

whipping hair back and forth

at the expense of Kunta's spine

blood drops compose the song of failure

where all of our children's children will know the lyrics and never the meaning

because we stopped watering our roots

tar baby molasses

the image glued to our retinas as ramification

for the three count

two-stepped

shucked jive used to survive

thanks to a forgotten 40-acre and a mule compromise

naming offspring synonyms of reparations unseen

"Lexus Freedom Jackson"

shall continue to be a dream deferred

because we have stopped watering our roots

wombs looming lies

bench warrant pride

maelstrom cacophony

conducted by our hands

blaming a master plan for the outcome of settled mediocrity

as new age entrepreneurs

we've taken to lynching ourselves

goals dangle on looped dry branches

once they've snapped

fall short

back to the block where it all began

auctioneer to oral tradition

no longer resembles the white stranger

that pan-handled our sanctity between great grands legs

why would she always cum?

secretions of her golden valor atop his dick

now adorned in rappers delight

the residue worn around one's neck

chains

locked gold

attained via the bend and fold of greenbacks

flatbacked for less than we're worth

all because we stopped watering our roots

where the ting-ting of cash registers

ring-ring our compasses to the bling-bling

equated with success at the expense of the soul

there's no check large enough to clear on its behalf

but with bass beats and syncopated quarter notes

history is buried

without proper funeral

procession music decrescendos

its true voice

now a half composition-ed overture

pauper graved

could have been avoided

if we hadn't stopped watering our roots