Found language in the microphone
belonging to you
aspire to libretto brow
profess patois
stumbling across dominance
spotlight a shone
upon your throne
East Village our home
to Baldwin's rainy days
a crowded Synagogue occupied
gathering Haven, Ginsberg and Ferlinghetti
mirrored Bohemian men threaded skin
the dead end
near Christopher Streets lonely bar
I too stumbling down doomed alleys
burden consciousness; seeking answers
toting burnt glass pipes
chiming baggy interior of a suit jacket
chasing you to a new nightmare
alone and scared
no place left to hide pain
crack rat poisoning eating your membrane
you continue to protest
through the thruway of a boiled soul
spewing out necessary testimonies
I hear you
I hear you . . . our Poetic Prince lost
like us all
knowing you in stages
black ink white pages
your undeniable truth
shattering apprentice minds
we continue the protest
through our microphones
we all speak . . . spoken utterances
Troupe, Last Poets, Baraka, Corso and Sanchez . . .
we all speak
we speak
we speak . . .
© 2011 Lepadah
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