Quartered.

Quartered.
For T.

Like my Grandpa used to say:
I’m still vertical.

We nearly drowned in our
Tears that one Murciano night
But like good little
American men
Like brothas we brimmed
And sucked it in
Laughed it away.

I hate it when people ask me

And then tell me what I’m not/Am.
Yes, Blacks and Whites, equally.

You quarter/Me half
And mostly no one knows,
I know that feeling brother.

at them
Out of them, bite them and thrash
like I could literally slap the shit
Indulging

the fantastic
This whole poem
And I’ve judged myself

dividends/blood and tears/ literally
cried/bullied/paid my black dues/
All I wanted was acceptance

You’re story is kinda irrelevant, sorry
Can’t you see me?

Fresh like the smell of almond blossoms
Some more ripe than others
Of scars,
Did I ever show you my collection?

Not to enter into Black heaven –
You ain’t even heavy enough
How much does your blackness weigh?/How heavy?
Put him on a triple beam
A different kind of segregation

Examined and diced up/I don’t know if I see it
Petri dish, not yet, not yet
Told you can’t come out of.

My gold black soul has been
Tagged inequities grind house
Quartering Mechanism
Inside a room

A different kind of Black experience
Mind fuck/To choose/
Hard already/then to add/Being mixed/that psychological
Black Being in America/is
For the slaughter

A kind of prison
It feels like quartering,
I know,

Just spirits
No elbow drops,
The tight-rope
Tag teaming the light-one off
a death dance party
heart that scrutiny
Like bludgeon
Stating I’m black sometimes feels

Not that Black/Who’s Black?/If you’re Black, I’m Black too.

/The world sees our stench

Never be ashamed.

Hit me up,

we haven’t rapped

in a while.

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