Martin Luther King Would Be Turning in His Grave

my hands in my pockets, curled fists, one

earphone out. I know you —

I know that look. we’re martin luther’s failures. he’s turning in his grave to watch us kick our way to freedom and we’re civil rights in action; we speak too loud ; I don’t have your white hand

on my Black, Black thigh, I’m not kissing at a white man to pass the time and hoping everyone sees that he picked me, so you can go home, you can feel satisfied, you can tell your wife! tell your wife:

the kids are alright, the kids are just fine, the kids aren’t choking on blood, they’re choking each other / the kids are a little wild, but I saw a white boy

with his tongue in a brown bitch’s throat and I didn’t like it, Janet,

but time’s a changing, time’s a changing, time’s a changing / this is the new age,

diversity

and all that jazz. interracial love,

and all that jazz.

but we aren’t playing by the rules, we don’t jive to the tune and stretch our big lips out wide singing, “praise jesus, praise the Lord.” I don’t pray. I waited for salvation

and you showed me the children, the children choking on blood in the street on my TV,

and something in me turned over — it was Martin Luther, wailing in his grave, it was Martin Luther,

he said,

“you are your ancestors. you are the boat on fire.

you are the only answer we have left.

pick a little cotton, sing a rhyme.

don’t forget from whence you came and don’t forget — by any means necessary — forget

what they taught you.

run. they have whips again. stand. the ground is breaking. rise.

you’re Black. you always will be.”

listen. the drums. the party up above / the cogs, grinding us to dust / the wheel, the endless wheel,

just, stand back, back up a little.

give me a lifetime to break it.