Shantay Monique

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Poemas

Hope?           What hope? Hope for a world consisting of inconsistencies of hoods on top of garbage dumps in India, Bangladesh, Cambodia, Bronx, NY - - - - Co-ops rise above piles of nasty smelly nauseating garbage the concrete below sinks a quarter of an inch every year it’s on top of a swamp Co-op City in Bronx, NY kids run deep killing each other   Children play on top of garbage dumps babies laugh playing ball the little ones miss the basket their little hands are so small the basket towers above looming… They miss the basket The elder teaches the babies… “Its okay, try again, “ he says.   Keep trying. Don’t give up because the fighter who gives up before the game is over dies.   I don’t know what a hopeful world looks like. Only hopeful moments. Where my little babies laugh and their laughter turns to disorganization –   heads shaking, eyes rolling back, yelling, “Don’t touch me.” “I won’t touch you,” I say, “I’ll only stay here by your side.”   Stay by my side I say and so you do. But not until you’ve beaten me. Beaten me and I’ve kicked you.   You’ve held me down and so I’ve bitten you. You grab me and so I push you. But you win. You win because you push me down, down into the sofa. I can’t leave. You won’t let me.   But I won’t let you win next time. Next time I’ll fight back more and more until there’s nothing left. There’s only dust. Dust and garbage. And high rises.   High rises filled with dope and love. Heroin and eyes. Watching, waiting.       10/14/09

The Murder of Oscar Grant, RIP Another Police Brutality Incident   Shantay Armstrong   “A peaceful protest turned into a violent one.”   So? It’s not violence that’s not the answer, its disorganization.   “A peaceful protest turned into a violent one.”   Cops with guns, cops backed by tanks, helicopters and bright lights shining above, we may be the people of the sun but those ghetto birds were shining bright florescent lights onto us that night.   How many times will an attack on the people be written off? The execution shows, as many times as necessary. Martin Luther King Jr. Day is next Monday but Malcolm said, “By Any Means Necessary.”   The murder of Oscar Grant is an example to get the people to STAY IN LINE!: Kill one as an example, scare them into fear.   “A peaceful protest turned into a violent one.”   Violence begats violence. I would kill for my dead son, any dead man of my people is the same as my dead son, brother, husband or father.   Rise up and organize into formation loved ones! Youth! Rise up with purpose! With cause. Already, disorganized emotions have turned into chaotic actions. The media has planned with the government to suppress any uprise. We must use stealth, covert actions first, focused planning, trained soldiers. They come out with guns, tanks, tear gas… we must come out with fighting mastery, guns, bombs, uniforms, be ready soldiers.   Stop getting killed! Organize! Focus the energy! Smashing Black owned shops ain’t bringing Oscar Grant back! Smash the system! Like trained soldiers during the art of war, smash it like you’re looking down the handle of your sword, and the battle is won when the tip meets the eyes of the enemy.  Slash!

Scream   I scream because of the dirt underneath my fingernails. I scream for the bread left out during the night, a light from an adjacent apartment silhouettes the small kitchen, I am the only one awake. I scream for the incessant sounds, shouts of people running their mouths without saying a word. I scream for summertime in the hood, music loud in the courtyard. I scream against the threat of numbers ruling lives. Statistics, credit, stocks. I scream for the Black Woman who could not in the alley outside the festival and the crowd. I scream against the subjection of Black communities to.a.slow.and.painful.death. I scream because there’s a baby being beaten. I scream because Black people are dying. I scream for the flowers that pop up after Winter. I scream for all the pairs who just had sex and the women who came!   I sigh with thoughts of kids growing up with happy ideas but no parents.   I scream because those who can will not.   I scream against selfishness.                 against the drugs masturbated into communities of color.                 against budget cuts. I scream for the man searched and arrested without his rights read to him,                 against his slaughter.  I scream because my father was dying, picking painful sores off his body, dabbing at his face with a bloody tissue, holding a milk gallon my mother cut with rusty scissors so he could piss because he couldn’t get up to use the bathroom.   I scream against his passivity, his complacency, his need for survival but.not.his.want.to.live.   I huddle inside myself with stress for release energy sound passion love bread.   S.c.r.e.a.m.i.n.g. for one more word.     10/14/09