POEM: What Sup? — Owed to Michael Brown and Ferguson, MO

They come with walls of armor
And arms, oh, the arms
Ever prepared to do the riot thing
Will their be matched
By the fire in the bellies
Waving conflagrations
Or hands bound
Staring down such a dear accost
As inevitably meet
Each hankering in their own weigh
For just another
Setting at the table
Inescapably found
In the porous of communities
When poach talk
Left behind
In an escaping domesticity
Beyond bred and whine
And parting shots
Dis tending question
What sup?

This one goes out to all of those in Ferguson, Missouri, dealing with the aftermath of the of Michael Brown by a officer — yet another young black male killed without justification by a white officer in .  Michael Brown is dead and is alive and well in .  Much of white is apparently puzzled by the , focusing on how they can protect themselves from the of their victims.  The cries for , white , overshadow the cries for .

This poem reflects on the militarization of and order, which is more consistent with the committed by a officer than protecting and serving the where that was committed.  You just have to look at who is dressing for a riot.  Hint: it's not the masses of peaceful .

The main images used in this poem center around the home as the foundation of .  The porch and the dining rooms where lives are shared and bread is broken is a glue that holds together .  Still, when it is not safe to walk the streets, porch talk and a good meal are not enough.  There is a to take to the streets and reclaim one's community.  The good people of Ferguson and America deserve an answer to the question, “What sup?”

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