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Yet To Be But Dated

by Anonymous

I am yet to be but dated
I am youth wasted on the young, the ace of spade spaded
I’m the bullet in Caesar’s back, the jaded

Knife through Kennedy’s face
The chords on Paco’s bass
I’m out of time but in place

I am He dressed in a cherry-red Sunday hat
The never not, never the always knock
Knock, I be who I say I is because I am that

Slave ship in the middle of the Sistine Chapel 
Placed at the top of the tower of Babel
Irreligious yet sacred like Garvey’s viable

Bones on display at the Louvre, I am bastardly martyrs massacred 
Us be in the dust, therefore I am Toussain L’ouverture’s fractured
Remains hammered to the sky’s manufacture

I am commodore of a “Whites only” fountain refusing to pour
Water on a burning black church in 1804
I am a buggy of fireflies crashing into children smoking in a candy store

I am 9th symphony playing a forest with a wind breeze
I am Rolling Stones, Beetles, Bob Dylan and Elvis Presleys
All with no music, I am the genocide in these

Gangster rap lyrics, I am the contradiction of silence
The reverse of regression, the inverse of absence
I am the antithesis of without but wisdom without sense

I am tranquil space between rock and hard place, I am freedom borrowed
Waiting on blood stains served on platters of coated sorrows
I am a retreat of hope in the belly of 10 shredded tomorrows

I am tomorrow yesterday; I’m Martin’s fenestrated Dream consumed
Malcolm’s X at a Starbucks in Harlem’s womb
The Xpresso machine making love to this bullet wound

That is, I am innuendo into the human psyche, one eyed, mouth of blood
Trying to sew a way back into the fabric of old glory and even the odds
I am a black boy in the streets of Port-au-Prince whispering his way back to God