You Better Believe We Some Beautiful People
sure, like all
living beings, especially 20th century americanized beings,
we are riddled with contradictions, like seventh generation
descendants of enslaved africans up&down this hemisphere
we've got sociologically specific problems even m.c. hammer
can't touch, like the wealth driven persistence of poverty,
old and new dope holes in our eyeballs, and imaginations
cluttered with wannabe-isms, we be so tired of concrete,
so tired, even when we don't know why we tired
or don't know why we don't feel like going to work
or wouldn't feel like going to work if we had a job
or how it's a hard job just going to the job and tired too
of no way to avoid negro politicians and white corporate
types always trying to sell us shinning trinkets
when what we need is acres of self-determined
living space painted the brilliant colors
of our unmolested emotions where we are able
to blow full out, riding on melodies and riffing rhythms
of cleverly rhymed black speech which two years from now
proper sounding teevee reporters will be enunciating
as they try to talk that clever toro poo-poo our people
naturally do so well, but for now i am going home
and am sailing down this street, reflectively smiling hard
at all my peoples giving the day a beautiful name
as they decorate broken sidewalks and littered street sides
a living african necklace on this caribbean city
my peripheral vision snap shooting portraits of
lanky legged men leaning against the wind
ambling down the street in yellow pants and red
shoes, wide grins with gold tooths, a black felt
sky piece ace deuced and a hand carved,
snake-headed walking cane, screaming coolness
defying sunset to be more graceful
and don't mention the sisters, the way they slay
and cause everything to pause, traffic be stopping
on green lights, people leaning out the window
trying to see what's happening, how come there
so many fine women in this three block stretch
and if you get out your car and walk the sidewalk
you will hear the music pouring out the houses
radios on the ground, some little big head kid
beating on a bucket and screaming at the top of his
lungs, two girls pop locking together, and this
is any evening on america street where we is
especially in the summer, we all be outside
inside is too hot, it's better to challenge the twilight
with our shouts and smiles, in the street
a young, fair skinned blood dribbles the ball between
his legs while backing just back enough for a green car to
pass by him with out touching him or that basketball, and
this is only the surface stuff, but you better believe
if the outside of us is this tough, inside, inside
all us, inside we is some beautiful people, yeah!
—kalamu ya salaam