The Ghetto's Ritual

There they go again. 

Posted outside the Papi Store 

with lucy’s tucked between 

the crannies of their ears like carpenters. 

Babbling lyrics from rap songs 

while their arms catch holy ghost; 

while the hour glass of their 

freedom dwindles away abruptly.  

“...It's all about the motherfuckin’ money!

It's all about the motherfuckin’ money!...” 

i see myself in the 

reflection of their lost; 

in the indifference of 

their laughter; 

in the quiet of their pain.  

Five-O creeps through the block 

like a drive-by, while the drug dealers 

stand their ground like a Mexican standoff.  

The tension is thick enough 

to cut with a prison shank.

“Ayooooooo!...where the bitches at bro?” 

“Stayin’ away from you broke ass niggas!” 

“Yeah iight, i get bitches nigga!” 

“Imagine that. The last time you got some pussy, DMX made a hit record.” 

“HAHAHA!!!” 

The air tastes like a black family reunion cookout down south. 

The new mothers proudly push their infant babies in strollers, 

while waiting on a collect call from the incarcerated fathers. 

Their girlfriends awkwardly flaunt their baby bumps. 

The newsy church women watch in shame, 

even though they became mothers at much younger ages. 

The kids recklessly ride their bikes in the street 

with no parents in sight.  

The universe colors our skin with sun.

...summer is around the corner. 

© Sulē Cerdan 2015

The Stamp (ADHD)

Run child. 

From them Ritalin pushers; 

them Adderall peddlers; 

them Concerta dealers. 

Waiting, 

Lurking,  

Hoping, 

To bottle up your spirit. 

To put a cork in your passion. 

To place a lid on your bizarre. 

Run farrrr child. 

Beyond their boxes. 

Beyond their brands, 

that make “The Man” rich. 

And puts his children 

through college, while ours 

become (add)icts. 

But this country 

was built off genocide. 

The Land of the Free, 

The Land that made a killin’ 

off selling lies. 

So why stop now, 

when history was written 

by those who have lynched prophets 

and shot down revolutionaries? 

© Sulē Cerdan 2015

Broken Vows

Love doesn’t live there... 

In the gaze of their eyes, 

In the shouts of goodbyes, 

In the warmth of their bed, 

In the stress of their sighs, 

In the streets when they walk, 

In the car when they drive, 

In the stores where they shop, 

In the house where they hide. 

Love doesn’t live there...

In the black of her heart, 

In the blues of his soul, 

In the red of their eyes, 

In the gray of their old, 

In the bones in their closets, 

In the ghost of their past, 

In the dope of their gossip,  

In the shroud of their mask. 

Love doesn’t live there. 

I wonder, 

did it ever? 

© Sulē Cerdan 2015

The Walk Home

The phony smiles.
The slack shoulders.
The dismal eyes,
Bloodshot and weary.
The unhealed wounds.
The deep regrets.
The mechanized steps,
Vain and Godless.
i hate it.
The way they
flaunt fake.
The way they
pretend confidence.
The way they
advocate lies,
The way it flows
off their tongues
like oxygen.
Ignorance is
ubiquitous.
In the air and
in the streets.
In the homes
and in the schools.
It made me.
Now it makes
me sick.
But hope
is and always
has been my
medicine.
So i carry on.
Hoping.

© Sulē Cerdan 2015

Red Carpet

When the red carpet fills,
When the red carpet fills.
  The churches grow idle,
          The protests go still.
The playgrounds forsakened,
while brain cells are killed.
When the red carpet fills,
When the red carpet fills.
The stars become Gods,
Gods words become lies.
Real becomes fake,
and beauty becomes guise.
When the red carpet fills,
When the red carpet fills.
Legacies are forgotten,
History is rewritten.
Ancestors have rottened,
and enemies keep living.
When the red carpet fills,
When the red carpet fills.
Our lives become fruitless,
Our smiles become dull.
Our freedom turns futile,
imprisoned by walls.
When the red carpet fills,
When the red carpet fills.
It fills the whole world
with Lucifer’s will.

© Sulē Cerdan 2015

the new slaves

It used to be,
Afros and Dashikis.
Black Berets and Power Fists.

Now its,
Tattoos and Silicone.
Blond Wigs and Ego Trips.

You see,
a Real Nigga is
the new Black and Proud.
The new peaceful March on Washington,
The new Railroads Underground.
The new Lindy Hops till bodies drop,
The new Soul Trains to James Brown.

We’ve been got!
Swindled!
Hoodwinked!
Led astray!

Like our ancestors.

Like our ancestors
ancestors, who prayed
that their great great
grandchildren wouldn’t
have to live their life in chains.

Well...
It used to be.

Time

Time.

The thorn in my side.
The apple of my eyes.
The heaven in my laugh.
The cynic in my why.

Time.

A felons nightmare.
A soldiers dream.
A nine-to-fivers curse.
A bank robbers scheme.

Time.

An illusion turned real.
An intrusion on will.
A solution to jail a
revolutions bold shrill.

Time.

A dying man’s wish.
A broken man’s hell.
A holy man’s grace.
A lucky man’s spell.

Time.

Ticking...Flying...
Ticking...Flying...
Away.

© Sulē Cerdan 2015