His sign was his suit
Normative heteros preach sobriety to “hoodlums” as they say
Like boarding schools they turn the urban rural
And make the rural masters
Cotton fields are now summer camps
Slave trading is now endorsements of politicians
You sell the souls of the exotic brown boys to your God
Your god unfamiliar to mine whom does not love all his children
What about your queer youth?
You shame them with false biblical teachings and deny them heaven
You insult their mere existence because someone once did this to you
You lustful demon who hovers over femininity
Did you forget that adultery is also a sin?
What about patriotism to the murderous flag you hang?
And your crippling pride that renders you just as weak as the self-conscious?
Or your hatred for the marginalized that created an institutionalized genocide
Of persons of color?
These realities impair your sight because
Your eyes are the mind of your penis
Each glare further erecting your diminished manhood
Which is challenged by the progression of millennials
You reject the epitome of perfection like Donald rejects the truth
Your camps are “CNN” and your mission is “Fake news”
No need for a sign when you spread your message disguising it as the “gospel”
Your tie is the picker stick and your suit is its sign
Each fabric contains another word to “strengthen” your message
But to your surprise
Hate has no place here.
“I Made the Choice to Be Gay”
The uncontrollable throbbing between your legs can somehow be tamed
Tell me, how did you decide what makes
Tell me, where did your desires for rose bushes come from?
Did your desire for flowers and pollen make you go searching for honey?
Or is it your unconscious lust to taste the sweetness of women?
Where do you want her juices?
[ ] dripping from your moist lips
[ ] tangled in consent
[ ] salivating lesbianness
But still I’ll say:
“You cannot go home if you are a homo
Unlike magnets, the same attracts you
But like glue harmoniously living with rainbows and unicorns
Where God is Madonna, where Satan is Hugh Hefner,
Where pride is every day, where cross-dressing is normative”
All could be yours,
Only if you allow your rainbow
To guide you to the queerness in gold
Like Virginia, I sit and stare at my schizophrenic reflection in the mirror
But is it me?
Kentucky blows her heavy heat on my neck
The wildfires of the Carolinas cast flames on my past
But am I free?
Free from the identity’s labels, society’s labels
No, I am stuck between who “I” am and who “I” think I was
The time that my eyes met you in West Virginia, my twin
But it is “I” who “I” met then, but now it is “I” that “I” look at now
Are there two of me?
No, I am Cerberus, three heads contacted to one body
Multiple people with the same skin, hair, eyes, nose, face, blackness, gayness
Are there other gays?
People who enjoy the same sex
Who kiss their siblings on the lips before departure,
just to prove King Tut could marry his sister?
I comb my hair with you, Miss Galloway, because in you I see the truth
A truth that is disguised in my subconscious, because socialization stripped me from erotica
Allowing prayers to drip out wet dreams about my uncle-brother who I now call husband
Or is that your story, Miss Galloway?
Did I create you because I cannot brush truth out of my hair? Or gayness, or blackness?
I should cut it off!
Going bald to become whole with manhood
As manhood is the way, the truth and the light
As straightness is the salvation to my damned destiny
As my private areas are meant to please the tips of imbeciles
As my sexuality is meant to be confiscated for order’s sake
As this damn mirror is meant to show me nation’s final product
As if I am nothing more than a reflection of you, Virginia
Hush, little Brown Boy
Hush, little Brown Boy, don’t fight back.
Mama doesn’t need a heart attack.
Fighting back might get you hung,
So, little Brown Boy, bite your tongue.
Mama warned me the system was broken,
But she never hinted that the brown body was a token.
She never suggested the very man being chased
By the boys in the blue mighta had my face.
Hush, little Brown Boy, don’t respond.
Mama can’t afford your bond.
And if the cops do pin you down,
Mama’s gonna make it the talk of the town.
Coates said, “we are incarcerating too few criminals,”
Like Cynthia Brown, only sixteen,
Killed her 43-year-old predator.
Ain’t that a scene!
Forced to clean her red marks in motels.
Now she’s recovering in a prison cell.
Hush, little Brown Boy, don’t you plea.
Mama’s gonna set you free.
And if Mama can’t set you free,
Mama’s gonna take a knee.
And when Mama takes that knee,
She will incite the whole country.
Incarceration increased, and so did policies.
A bunch of white men monitoring my biology
When they put my daddy behind bars.
My only other option was to start stealing cars.
Phone, travel, and legal fees.
You better get used to me taking a knee
For an anthem birthed in severe oppression.
Donald’s about to send all of us
Through another depression.
Mama’s gonna have to lay you to rest.
And when Mama lays you to rest,
Another Brown Boy will sure be next.