Abnormal To Ban Poetry

APPROACHING ANUBIS’ SCALE

Heart leadens,

from dragging carcasses

of the unsaved, unconvinced, unchanged.

Tethered to their fates.

Is heart lighter than feather,

when good deeds pave ways to hell?

Were they just and true?

Was I… pawn?...

Traversing this treacherous trail

towards the final scale,

cannot tell if tales were

fact, fiction, or contrived contradiction.

What was this life for?

Could I, should I have

accomplished more?

How much does a feather weigh?

From what was it plucked?

A beast bigger than my burden?

Life was hell,

can death be any worse?

Encumbrances increased?

Or does this process

shed distress?

Heart’s heavy,

dragging stiff corpses

of regrets and undones.

Tell me, Anubis,

how heavy is this feather?

THE TASTE

Death tastes like quarter waters,

tainted water, potato chips,

canned foods, fries, and

dollar pizza. It’s the high fructose

flavored, overly sugared,

polluted and way too salty

low-quality food that was cheap to get

because fresh food was literally too far

out of reach and expensive to eat.

It therefore tastes like high blood

pressure, diabetes and lead poisoning.

Or is that what murder tastes like?

Maybe then, death tastes like ash.

You know, that which we all return.

Frames reduce to powder, inevitably.

It may feel desert dry on the tongue,

our lips chapped, and in last moments

we beg for just a bit of moisture

like George pleaded for more air?

Or does it taste metallic?

Does your mouth fill with the taste

of iron as your life force slowly

exits the body. Your insides now

external after violence punctured you.

Could death instead, in fact, taste sweet

after having been released from

all this torturous human suffering.

I hope it’s flavored like my favorite

caramel fudge ice cream consumed

on a sweltering labor-intensive day.

After all, life is just that when Black.

THE NIGHT THAT DIDN’T HAPPEN

A four-year-old didn’t scream “Daddy?!”

And his fiancé didn’t record

the aftermath of a tragedy.

And a series of pops didn’t change worlds.

In fact, bullets didn’t fly at all,

they rested in their magazine.

The day proved to be boring and

routine for a cop on his beat.

Philando, therefore, never

reached for his permit or license.

He was never stopped.

He never stopped.

He didn’t stop.

He drove down the road

with his lady and their child

letting the latest music play as

backdrop to the requisite “talk”.

Though summer, he dreamt of the fall

when all the children at the school

would smile as he served

warm meals that filled needy bellies.

And as a result of the quiet day,

I put the full bottle of pills down,

sleep feeling as if it will come easy

and assistance will not be needed,

momentary or permanent.

Rivers reverse their course,

then pool, then vanish

as if never there,

as if in defiance,

as if defying

the gravity of race relations.

And the late-night show

that could trigger

the contemplation to end it all

just joshes generally about fatherhood.

Nothing traumatizing or triggering

flashes across the screen

so I laugh, lightly at bad dad jokes,

and drift off safely

in my home and in my skin.