It's Not Fair That...

it's not fair that concrete is heavier than the feathers
trapped under his skin,
nor is it fair that he cannot win
just because his body isn't qualified to play.

she gave birth to him, in a playground
where rounds of rage were served daily near the bodega
and the enigma of the White, White house
on the High, High hill
is what
managed to kill the entire community.

he looked like magic, but everybody thought
he was a curse
so he cursed when he spoke
and stole when he could so that what he should be
he was
while what he could become
remained undone
like runny eggs in communist crevices.

it's not fair that cities are scarier than turbans
at airports
but this is just a sport, right?

The Gravity of Inequity

before you hate us
walk four hundred years in our skin
shoes just won't do for you
neither will stealing our blues and making millions off of it in vain
while we feel the pain
the disdain you feel for we
you'll see through eyes behind the flesh that you detest
making pigment protest on streets built by callous hands
while water hoses create death on demand
imagine the abnormality of the reality
you hanging from trees
the strangest of fruit, your truth
but who cares about the truth
when your rainbow isn't enough to be seen in constitutions
three-fifths of another hue, an abstract compromise of insanity
and even more of a calamity
that babies were thrown away on ships that invaded continents
who never imagined they would arrive
your religion stripped from you, deprived
replaced with one that defines your existence as sin
you must be saved while we enslave you
and your language will be buried in the home of the brave
while we cage you in and keep you out
when your walk concludes
and the land of the free lies to humanity
remember your journey
the one that taught you to walk then crawl

© Crystal Belle and Speaks Beliefs, 2010. All rights reserved.

A Dope Poets Society Collaboration.

11 Days After Independence

Toussaint woke up on January 12, 2010.
With a pen in his hand and a revolt in his heart he said:
“WAKE UP, I am back!”
And just like that the land cracked into two then four then ten
Sending tough skin up in the air, as the media snared the public into Haitian Horror.
Tomorrow was a joke and today remained in tact as the fact that
Rebels often die after death resounded.
Astounded by the sound of Toussaint’s voice, the earth spoke back
With remnants of Napoleon’s blood on its Vodou fingers.
Bodies either rose up, or sank down into the soil that is still owned
By the World Bank.

Ayiti, tell me you hear me
Ayiti, tell me you hear me

The shanty towns fell down, begging for the funds it never found
After the Revolution.
The cries of beautiful babies with brave hearts cried out to General Dessalines,
But the seams of the land refused to stay together
And just like that, people were swallowed in as CNN spit them out,
Easily.
Technology was down there, but up here, as we glared into what we observe as one of four:
Blacks, Whites, Yellows, Browns,
Watching like clowns who look at children at lavish birthday parties.
Except lavish was replaced with niggardly
So now you can really see
Louis XIV’s code noir of 1685 .

Ayiti, Je T’aime
Ayiti, Je T’aime

December of 1492, Columbus came through
Causing indigenous populations to disappear
But nobody cared about the berries that were too dark to be lovely.
Goodbye Taino. Hello Hispaniola.
You cannot erase Africa from the souls of a fighting folk.
And centuries later, in 1791, the slaves rebelled like natural disasters.
Not even French gas chambers could stop them.

Ayiti, sak pase?
Ayiti, sak pase?

The first black republic in the world
The first black nation in the western hemisphere to abolish slavery completely
But now you are saying Ayiti is not free
That she is
The poorest. The blackest. The neediest. The greediest. The hungriest. The saddest.
The most illiterate. The most unemployed. The most corrupt. The worst luck.

But Toussaint is back and he is saying
Let us eat soup
Let us eat soup
Like January 1, 1804
Like The Farming of the Bones
Let us eat soup
Let us eat soup

Ayiti, Komon ou ye?
Ayiti, Komon ou ye?

When Barbie Was Ignored

She had everything they said I needed to be beautiful:
A waist the size of my wrist,
hair as yellow as the sun on the warmest day
and eyes that matched the greens of tourist seas.

Lily asked to be my friend.
I didn’t understand her desire to be near me,
however,
I allowed her into my mirror,
just like that.

One day, we walked into a pizza shop and
the man with the tanned skin and handsome smile
took one look at me and said,
“I love your eyes.”
Lily replied: “Thank you.”
“Not you, your friend” said Mr. Pizza Man with certainty.
Lily smiled awkwardly and decided that she would pay for both pizzas,
hers and mine.

As we walked back to work, greasy paper bag in hand,
dripping with the oils of the tanned man,
Lily looked at me and said:
“I never noticed your eyes before…”
I looked at my reflection in the car window and
admired the beauty of my big, dark, brown eyes,
not the color of the sea, but the color of my skin.

A Comb and A Conscience

it happened today when my comb told me that Europe was a liar. i questioned why, but my comb didn’t answer because it was stuck in the trenches of my curls.

i submissively replied:

i want to be a kettle so i can continue to be called black and i want your facts to be the truth before you encounter my youth.

spread me wide and high like a neo-negro with tough hair and dark knuckles that i use to knead cowrie shells and plantains.

defame me but you can never claim me as yours and the chores of my ancestors will keep me above you.

i don't love you or the fact that my mirror is tainted with the spit of your colonial blood that haunts my nose.

you cannot construe me or confuse me with colors, because mine is too dark for you to embark upon.

every time you tell me a lie, I learn the truth about myself so i thank you for propaganda.

i will continue to wear it, this skin, boldly like a blanket you often use to cover the clouds in this cold region. i want to go back to Black...

my comb looked at me and smiled, inherently proud of my practice for the upcoming parade.

The Abortion

Murder isn’t usually planned in cases like these. After all, the child was conceived while making love on a dirty street corner infested with crack vials and hood dreams. She wanted to love this Thing inside of her who she didn’t know, but the sound of police sirens and used syringes were more appealing. One day, she walked into a free clinic with walls that were not White. They stuck a vacuum inside of the Thing that she didn’t know, that she would never know, and sucked it up into a Ghetto abyss. And just like that, she was back on the corner, where the Thing was concocted.

Cigarette Woman

She often smoked a cigarette after she came
(after fucking that is).
She loved to see the smoke slide out of her mouth
spreading itself onto the warm body she devoured
(on top, of course).
There would be silence combined with the smell of smoke
in the tiny bedroom, cramped with expensive shoes
and thin walls.

He liked to see her smoke. It made him want more of
her, on top.
She knew what he liked and this pleased her.
As she inhaled the toxic tobacco,
her head continued to spin a spinster’s tale
where women like her ended up street side,
waiting for rides that let her ride a reverie.
They thought she was lost.
She knew she was found.
But. This. Was. Only. A. Dream.

It was almost done, her cigarette,
which the orange line indicated.
She looked down, took one last puff,
and buckled up for another journey.

© Crystal Belle