RxPx2

For Angelo

The blacks and blues ain't nothin' but a shadow of a white man's frown, cast across a Black man's door. It lingers there, heavy and cold, keeping opportunity out and dreams locked in.

They killed Nat Turner and made souvenir handbags out of his skin. They sold out fast.
John Brown was just dumped in the earth.

Man can work his hands to the bone, but the color of his skin dictates the weight of his pay, the height of his climb. That shadow stretches across the land, from the cotton fields to the factory floor, a constant reminder that some folks are born with a heavier load to bear.

James Baldwin couldn't take it.
Moved to France. Never came back.
They killed Martin Luther King. And whitewashed his message of economic inequity for all the good little schoolchildren.
Turned him into a Saturday morning cartoon character.

Some say this is a land of freedom, but the bars ain't always made of iron. Sometimes they're woven from whispers and stares, from "No Vacancy" signs and seats at the back of the bus. The Black woman feels the weight of eyes judging her every step, questioning her right to be there, to be beautiful, to be free.
The air hangs thick with unspoken words, with the ghosts of a past that refuses to die.

Cross the street when you see them. Keep an eye on your property values when they move in.
Lonely road in Mississippi, early 60's. Execution style. Bodies discarded like trash.

Malcolm X knew it. Muhammad Ali knew it. Angela Davis knew it, all too well. And they paid.
Trayvon Martin and Michael Brown and George Floyd learned it, all too well. They paid too.

Same batch of old stale wine. Just gets put in new bottles every few years.

God bless America.