©2004 M. Bennett Hooper

I’m going to write a poem about how some people can’t recognize the truth unless it’s coated in an evil cover like fighting for democracy has nothing to do with economics.
Think not; then how are oil company stocks faring on wall street?

I’m going to write a poem about some Black men who are afraid to love an independent Black woman.
There are codes here and the words are fear and independent, which is really a misnomer cause truly independent people have no time for fear.

I’m going to write a poem about dreamers who refuse to act upon their dreams because they lack money and follow their inactivity with blame placed on others who only thought the dreamers were sleeping.

I’m going to write a poem about misplaced love which when unfulfilled is gift wrapped in misery by those who thrive on chaos and sadness.
Drama queens with drama filled dreams of Prince Charming who drives an Escalade but still lives with his mama and queens see him as their rescuer.

I’m going to write a poem about those who come to poetry venues to expect poetry to be a rappers delight and say they don’t like poetry when what they really mean is they can’t face the truth when it falls upon the ears of Sunday birds who practice pew assassinations between their congregational assignations.
Or what I mean is the use of churches as Entertainment Centers of America filled with practitioners who can’t spell love much less practice loving each other beyond moistened hands and tithing thighs.

I’m going to write a poem about Black people who aren’t protesting against the practice of counting prisoners, mostly Black and Hispanic housed in new penitentiaries in primarily white communities and counted as members of the community’s population which aids in the distribution of federal dollars as some assume emancipation denotes freedom.
Other prisoners like white collar non-executive workers in Corporate America and Mickey D’s also toil on new age plantations minus health care and pension plans..

I’m going to write a poem about young Black women who risk their lives for momentary rides of unprotected sex cause he told her he loved her but neglected to tell her she was his lover number 43 and he is HIV positive.
But she marries him anyway and now he is dying, she is pregnant and considering an abortion of the next baby Jesus.
I’m going to write a poem about judgmental people whose own lives could not stand the scrutiny with which they examine others.

I’m going to write a poem about my love and hope that my example is a positive one as I continue to nurture the young when they are receptive because I think elders have a responsibility to leave more behind than materialistic possessions even though money is okay.

I’m going to write a poem about Black love. Black hope, and Black pride or at least what has happened to it as I watch Octavia Butler’s Parable of The Sower becoming a reality in my hometown of Detroit.

Detroit which is being ravaged by young criminals who having little hope strive to destroy the fabric of Black life and boarded houses and buildings weep of past glory days as pot holes devour cars and a banner flaps in the rain.
Welcome to Detroit and I wonder when my Detroit died or maybe she is just severely wounded. I hope she rises again when next I see her.

I’m going to write a poem about  visiting my 89 year old cousin Sarah who bought a new car and plans a road trip to Arkansas.
My cousin Sarah 89 who cooked dinner for us a true southern delight of turkey, pies, and trimmings as her dog Jiggs who is a pig in disguise looked longingly into the kitchen from the back porch as if he was the guest of honor.
And I delight in the presence of my elder as love leaps between us my family elder and shero.

I’m going to write a poem about friends, lovers, and road warriors who practice fire drills with old handguns and hope imaginary villains will not choose them to victimize.
I’m going to write a poem as soon as I learn to shut up long enough to write a poem.