JusticenotJustice

Ferguson rhymes with Fallujah.
It's sister city to Soweto, they have
direct flights to Guantanamo, and
is one exit off the freeway
down the road from Gaza. All of Mexico
has gone looking for her lost students there,
asking around Kissinger's
closet in Allende's bedroom,
under his Klan robe
and those bloody gloves
the size of Mobutu's Africa. Jim Crow
sits atop a satellite dish,
pickin' over MLK's bones,
talkin 'bout the Fox in the henhouse--
somethin 'bout black men white houses
and black white black white blurrrrrrr--
why folks gettin' angry?

History.

A criminal with a long rap
sheet and a hood. History, ok?
It ain't just in a book, like laws and shit.

But we can pretend, make believe
justice is served, on ice just
enough to shake our faith
and stir up emotions deeper than
Mississippi cotton. And that bleeds, like
fingers toiled to the bone, shredded
like the blues over steel strings, splattered
like cold steel shots ring entry wounds
shattered like dreams, a.k.a. exit wounds.
Triggers pulled by the uniformed, the
uninformed, those who should be
our brothers, keepers
of the peace. Forgetting
that the hand that feeds
fear and lies gave them guns, pointed them
in the wrong direction. Crime rhymes
with poverty, but criminals are synonyms
for corporate congress. We are
in their cross hairs: their soldier cops' fears
they trigger, pulling
the wool over eyes trained
to see in black and white. We are all
Palestinian Michael Browns lost
in drug wars south of the border,
searching for lost limbs and lost
loved ones in the bloody jungles,
in the oily sands, the ghetto streets,
like the disappeared, in dungeons,
cell blocks, sidewalks, captives
of capital isms that contrive
to unite us against ourselves.