Should I write a black history poem?!
I mean...
What the hell should a Black History Poem Do?
What it should it sounds like, and why should i write it?

Should it be a Spike Lee Collage
of great african american achievments?
Should it be latent down with struggle & berievement?
Should it quake like chains and shackles up my throat,
and taste like Hope upon my teeth,
Should my eys go red as blood or white as clansman sheets?
Do i have to mention Dizzy and Ella? Do I have to Dance
like Gregory Hines, and sing like Etta?
Should I pretend my skins give me some better, grand
understanding of ALL things black?
Should it be a guilt trip stacked with facts and stats,
that map what we've been through, and achor us to where we're at?
Should it smile
like Thelonius Monk's reflection
in apatures,
or should it pull a Miles Davis
and just stone wall it's respect
form all cameras?
Shold my black poem cry, scream
laugh, or be serious?
Should it dare to be curious?
Furious, jovial, lazy with energy
Should it proclaim an originality
that deams all other culture's it's mini-me?
Or should it express itself more religiously?
Should my black history poem mention gods,
who through out centuries, dodged English literacy
and literally can not be found where I'm from?
Should my black history poem ONLY be spoken over drums?
Should it run FOR freedom
or run LIKE freedom?
Should it run like wind through wings of sparrow
when our eyes see 'em, til they long to sieze them, keep them,
Should it stall? Should it pause?
Should it HAVE to run at all? Can it crawl?
Can it just hop in a car? Can it drive passed tomorrow
Would that be too far?
Could it be like that kite
that took flight passed satelites & stars?
Passed saturn's rings, passed mars,
and zig zagged a bazaar pattern back to where we are
and once it returns,
does it have to smell like frankensense
like prayer clothes, like incense?
Should it make sense to your sensative sensibilities?
Make you feel better for being black, or
guilty if you're not?
Should it swell chest with pride as Black History slides
over jimbes and bayous, and cadillacs and fatback,
and fishfries and cognac, and gang ties, and flap jacks
and four little girls sing 'bout Miss Mary Mack-Mack
All dressed in black-black, with silver buttons down her back-back
over platinum chains as rappers-rap as swaggers jack
and dappers dap, and old school cats start laughing back
like daaamn..
we used to "doo-dat-doo-doo-dat-dat-dat" (2x's)

like record scratched, broken
skippin' over tracks; black history
repeating its self; no history
repeating its self, i'm seeing this wealth
while repeating these steps
to learn where we're from
to see what is next,
to learn where we from
to know what's next
ain't just for one,
but everyone else, so yes...

I SHOULD write
that black history
poem.