Black Boy Blues

baby black boy learns his a,b,c's
baby black boy learns his a,b,c's
A,B,C,R,A,C,K Recipes
Boiling water, baking soda
Burning broken wire hangers.

mama don't know granny is into plague retail
mama don't know granny is into plague retail
Watch baby black hands trace
deadly outlines of overdosed
souls quivering on the floor

Baby black boy eyes watch
dream smoke rise
from glass
pipes
Baby black boy eyes watch
dream smoke rise
from glass
pipes
Burning away bills, food, hungry baby mouths

baby boy black learns his 1,2,3's
baby boy black learns his 1,2,3's
1,2,3 ounces of Cocaine
to be made into
   rock
    crystallized
         worlds
to be made into
   rock
     crystallized
           worlds

sing the song of make believe baby boy black
sing the song of make believe baby boy black
as you watch the gun
being put to granny's head
and she
clicks
and she
clicks
and she
clicks

make believe
you are unaware
make believe
you are not scared
make believe
you don't know the recipe
for
     horror

Shysuaune T. Taylor, age 19

Satisfaction of an Orange

Two boys sat on the edge of the lawn next to their
classroom.  The sun was high, making small shadows on
the grass around them.  Other students lounged not far off,
in small groups of three or four.  One of the boys took an
orange from his backpack, tearing into its skin with his
uncut fingernail.
     "The most satisfying thing in life is an orange," he
stated, gently pulling the skin away, splitting the fruit in half.
     "No it's not," argued the other.
     The first boy pushed a whole slice between his lips.
"It's soft and juicy and sweet in your mouth," he said.
     "It's not the most satisfying thing," repeated the 
other, watching his friend caress a slice with his tongue.
     "What is it then?" the friend asked, chewing, turning to
look at the other boy.
     "Pussy," he stated, glancing at his pack, then back up
at his friend.
     "How would you know?" exclaimed the first, tearing 
another slice, popping it into his mouth.
     "I dunno," shrugged the second.
     "When you finish an orange, you don't feel like you
need another one."
     "You don't after some good pussy, either; you just feel 
good, and relaxed."
     "At first, but eventually you need it again.  And an
orange doesn't have that tension while your eating it,"
the first said, chewing two slices at once.  "Want some?" he
offered a piece to another boy.
     "Sure," said the second, taking the large chunk.  He bit
into it, carefully pulling the half in his hand away from his
mouth.  The two ate in silence for a moment.  Chatter could
be heard from across the field.
     Swallowing, the second said, "Oranges squirt all over
your clothes, if your not careful."
     "No comment."
     Each took another bite.  "Oranges don't play with your
mind," said the first.
     "Yeah.  I dunno."  The second shrugged his shoulders
again.  "Can I have another piece?"

Benjamin D. Martin, age 18

A Poem For Us

What god was it that plucked us
from heaven's branches
sewed us into our mothers' wombs
to sprout
to blossom
to be beautiful for us?

What god was it that slid us onto this planet
as slick as we are
with lightning for tongues
and gave us the task of poets?

I don't concern myself with things too much to think of
it's all irrelevant now, because

we are nothing less than great
but that's too much to believe, isn't it?

always trying to ease out of these bodies
I too know despondency
like I know the rolling, shifting
uneasy feeling of my spirit

I know discontent, as much
as my eyes know to retreat,
peeling back from the sight of my reflection

we are nothing less than great
but this truth we dread, waving blazing fists in its face
clenching doubt in our tender palms
because we are too afraid to love ourselves

how have we managed to travel so little
yet hate ourselves so much
Ginsberg said he saw the best minds of his generation
destroyed
I have seen the same

I have seen us in our rooms
foils and lighters in our hands
straw in our lips and our noses
chasing black dragons and snorting white cobras
because 10 dollars was cheap
for a double hit of joy

I have seen us hunched over toilet bowls
vomiting self-esteem down the drain
because Vogue and Elle always
dressed beauty in a size 3 and that
was only a heave-ho and upchuck away

I have seen us on the corner
complacent and numb
copping doom in dime bags
because we didn't know that
The grim reaper wore Filas and a hoodie

I have seen us swigging
golden poison because we
were fooled and made to believe that manhood
could be sold in 40-ounce bottles

I have seen us spread our legs like the horizon
because some man tricked us into believing
that love could only be found on our backs

I have seen
us
I have seen
us

and I am not a coward anymore
I see us for what we are
nothing less than great, because
we are the poets

the derelict cats who prance on fine lines of chance
the sky rips open for us, luck lands on our laps
we confuse the wind, dismiss it
and send it off to all directions
we tap-dance on the shoulders of waves
and give height to the tides
we walk and talk mountains
breathe hurricanes, hum earthquakes
and our kisses are wet haikus glistening on crimson pages

we are nothing less than great
more than divine
but great and divine are still just words
words still have walls
walls are nothing but limits
but we are limitless beyond articulation

the world is waiting, holding its breath, waiting for us
the poems are waiting, holding their breath, waiting for us
they are waiting for us
to speak our thunder
to claim the mountaintops
to siphon the sun into our pens
and illuminate the page

just take my hand
time is flying away on precious gilded wings
we cannot be cowards anymore
the stakes are too high
the poems are too many

just take my hand
there's a universe for us to write about
the stars for us to conquer
let's start right here on this mountaintop
where we are gods and goddesses
who do not know the meaning of defeat
take my hand if you want
and let's write these poems together

Timothy Arevalo, age 19

Excerpted from YOU HEAR ME? © Copyright 2003 by Betsy Franco. Reprinted with permission by Candlewick Press. All rights reserved.