Ode to the African American Babies

By Claude Robert Hill, IV

Gangsta Overseers
Cowards are walking the streets with blindfolds.
Making that cash
Robbing that ass
killing the now silent babies.
The babies of a deafening community ear
That stands by, without the common sense
To hear the tears and the whispers of deaths on the horizon.
So focused on gaining material shit
bit by bit….
Boom! Boom! Boom! Here goes the next hit.
Everyone is an equal opportunity mark for the coward’s ball.
The events of all events rid us of the pulse.
The blood of community renewal in slow motion free fall.
I am losing the strength to stand
up against the fatherless and motherless black man
The prisons perform their Oliver and Twist,
While coroners whose heads bowed heavily after examining slit wrists.

The Muted Resistance
Peoples of color have surrender the fight,
The means to congregate on the hills of a grander sight
‘I have a dream’ has been pissed and dissed on and now a sore blight
on a promise that once had longevity and the seal of civil rights.
Now that ‘civil’ is laid to rest on hollow graves of a future silenced forever. Live every fucking voice and sing… what?
This is the fairy tale of a separatist lies…

As the world withers up like a green herb tree and people fall into darkness. The kings and queens of selectivity choose to save their riches and stuff.
There is no consideration for the alternative ‘instead’ to stop the mass bounty of violence on our babies’ head.
The greatest ransom for the days ahead is the closed mouth;
that performed its sinister acts of chi-town death and self dread;
to initiate the final measure of a community on the edge.
The death march is blasting to a madness festering in the head.
An unwillingness to
stop the angel of death from performing the ultimate sanction…
The genocide of the colored soul has reached its stereotypical and statistical conclusions.
Upon the dying wastelands of where the ‘Civil’ of the 1960s once tread.
Now a little baby girl lays dead.