Why Don’t Jesus Rebuild Black Mothers’ Hearts?

insane mind
African Americans we have no reason to hold on to the American’ dream. We have no logic to pray our stock will champion self. For it is not, a plausible reason to adopt the culture of White Male Supremacy and consider yourself saved. My question since understanding religion at the age of 8 or 10 years old. Why is that White man on my mother’s bible? For the life of me, I could not grasps that connection. Nonetheless, she (pretended) to worship something that only supplied more fear and sorrow. My mother died a horrible death waiting on the White figure that did not exist. She cried and mourned herself to death….I felt hopeless almost like a villain or a death seeker.
How could she pray and pray, yet nothing arrived but darken tears. The sun removed, the darkness soaks the faint attempt at dying by my hands. For surely, I had enough of this life, I began to mourn and behave like my deceased matrical. The storm whistling such a demise, yet, the summer coolness bleeds on my toes. I send this message to announce our evitable death while waiting for God. No such spirit would place the irony of our ways…or shall it. I run toward my mother but she’s not there. I hear her laughter, but she’s not there.
I describe her to my children and grandchildren. But, she’s not there. There is no light for the blind, no cup, that swells with water. My soul has never healed from my mother’s death. I am a lonely pot, unfit to find strength in myself. Yet, I remain drunken, an intoxicated brute incapable of throwing her bible about. She cried, so much to that book, I hate it then and despise presently. There are no blessings for Black mothers’ that cry in the night….None.
The Invisible Dragon

When Black Men Cry

Brothers and Sisters, we’re not considered as humans. What court-mandated violence have not visited Black folks’ souls? What scorn and violence has not raised its hands to our people, our women, our children? What child’s scream drowns out her mother’ brutal rape? It is the Black face this government hates without reason or cause. It is the Black face our countrymen have never visited yet dreams violence upon us. What means by the sky that holds God’s pity yet forecloses on thy skin. My fellow brothers and sisters, we have not made such a place home, just beyond our heaven. For surely, our humanity toils for deliverance, from thy brutal masters, our oppressors, and still, we willfully look over our past. Scorn our present and dream nightmarish about the future. Provide thy sword, and go yonder, that my eyes vision, not this torture.
Brothers and sisters, they killed the mule and sold the 40 acres. No bell rings for our salvation, among heaven or hell. So we pretend thy good, lay with the oppressors, the young brother screams. The officials place their hands over their ears, the brother moans, the sounds of slaves’ narratives. The 21st-century approached and dignified our value of a wounded dog. The rabid K9 marks the dark flesh as a reward from Black men and women negative responses. Stand up in court and receive thy justice for speaking without permission. The pillars of justice forever enslaved us to thy present state. This group, the African American male who mourn freedom and equality. But, thy eyes speak to its oppressors whom that loves Black pain. It is the screams of this brother as he lay postured. He has proclaimed, the constitution of the United States hates his spirit, and dreams far away.
When Black Men Cry…they tell stories.
The Silent Dragon Jumps

The First Lady: Sex, Baptism, & Friends

church-womanI walk and vision a companion, she notices my gaze. My attention engages her blouse, a rosy flower gown top, her bubbly breast tight, nipples stiff. We have done this before and often, her husband, the reverend provided our lead in. His Black ass running around chasing hookers and improvised church women. I developed my pleasures for the First Lady on the other side of town. She visits the children’s shelter often, her dark brown bottom unmarked and motionless. I am not shy nor apprehensive on my engagement; I’m living in what was prepared. Yet, I fear, she possesses my secrets, special movements, and excitement with others.

Many men fear to engage the First Lady, not me, she wants love and dirty sex. I sit two rolls back, stroking my thigh, staring into memories, our memories, our fifthly desires. She plays an open game of hide and seek, I fall for it, I accept the cookie and juice offering. She glances at a friend worshiper; my heart anticipates our secret is known. Yet, we never considered the holy church for an escapade with her friend.  Fred Hammond drowns out my private desires, The First Lady, and friend, hmm. Is it possible? Hell, yeacross? Is it, right?

You damn right! Their Black sorority or whatever got ‘em working out like this, now bring that thang over here, wet, real wet. My shaft is restless, staring at both, brown and light-skinned, you feel me. My thrust soaks up the fluids from their Wonder Caves. Both involves themselves as I place the proper music tone, I’m allowed to watch, as both, show me what Holy is about. The First Lady’s eyes go toward the ceiling, her streams flow smoothly like Sade’s beats. There’s never a need for loud sounds, we keep it down, and pass the movement around. The pastors and friends none the wise, it’s going down around town.

I am lost in their passion, they absorb my desires, intimidating but soothing. Her friend’s fingers guiding my boyish hands to snatch her nimble. I am lost, help me, it is intimidating but soothing. Silence again takes my potency and caress the spirit, both spirit unbeknownst before this deliberate seduction. Their hips lay me down, a speechless heroin of a thousand lovers seduces my fears, my fears are their Aphrodite she increases the First Lady’s device. Her friend’s purpose to extract my fantasies, I am soon exhausted by their vigor. In a trance, I vision two companions, neither lives with fear or sadness, we behave this way


Oh, yeah, we locked the church doors.

Robert a, Williams

Our Guilt: We Taught Black Boys How to Kill

Many African Americans are culpable for the mass killings taking place in cities like Chicago, Philadelphia, and Washington D.C. Yes, you heard me right; there are individuals in their late 40’s and 50’s that set the stage for these current killing fields. I am one of those individuals. In Chicago, during the 70’s and 80’s, you learned about vice and violence early. It is obvious this goes back even further than those decades. Nonetheless, in Englewood, where I grew up in the 70’s and 80’s: You; learned to fight, steal, and bully before you learned to read. This rite of passage was mandatory, you fight, or you die. Crime and violence was in our DNA.

In present times, the young Black males that slaughter innocent lives received their training from individuals like me. Of course, some will argue they never gang banged, shot, or robbed someone, and neither have I. Nonetheless, I protected friends and relatives who were married to the gun, drug trade, or murderous dispose. I’ll admit I also did my dirt as well but just more on a softer side.   As a point, the young Black male who murdered my nephew last week in Chicago learned his violence from someone. He learned terror from someone…he was not his own teacher.  Who taught him or them to kill without remorse or care?

I know numerous people who grew up during the 70’s and 80’s like me. Some of these individuals live a good life now, God, and Jesus Christ flow through their veins. Yet, their past lives’ reflect a contrast that challenges their current piousness. In the hood, most cheated in some form or another, rather our parents, relatives, or friends, we were instructed on how to ‘get over’. Whether it was the racket of ‘picking numbers’ or buying stolen meats and produce from a thief, we did anything necessary to survive, and get ahead. Yet, now we pretend to scorn our young Black brothers for their violence and crime-ridden affairs that has a similar objective: To come up.

I forgive the young brother who took my nephew’s life because he learned his violence from someone like me…just like me. He may have lost his father as I did or refused to grasp love in a proper manner. Regardless of the matter, he saw Black brothers and sisters who are now cops, firefighters, pastors, coaches, and teachers get over. He saw a brother claim righteousness yet steal another man’s wife in the dark. He witnessed the good sister in the day and her crack addicted twin at night. Worse, he may have witnessed the sexual abuse of his sister by relatives or friends. Let me not forget, he watched everyone come up but him. This young man learned his hate and violence from someone.

Another young brother replaced my nephew in the news headlines within a few hours in Chicago. The matter at hand is to remind you, that your crimes, whether soft or hard, helped these young brothers take it a step further. We are not innocent as we grasp tighter our nearing retirement pensions, or Facebook our latest vacation. We are to blame; I know so many brothers and sisters who now sit back and say, “What a shame how they’re killing each other” while they buy their ounce of Kush, bootleg laptop, or flat screen television. You know damn well, how these young cats got their deadly desires…They watched us growing up.

The Invisible Dragon