I'm
I'll see
As this young songstress I know
A lucid dream companion
who spoke like she
wrote
All midnight indigos
recalled to the bluest
no found out she was murdered by
NYPD two days ago
mistaken for arm they found no
real weapons just her pen
her past some words she wrote her last
poem about a kid with a diagnosis
poetry an d prose was insanity's
plea a kid floating down
Harlem streets pavement piercing his piece
like a needle puncturing birds
wing on dark nights the
kid thought he was tripping
He kept hearing death sing in his sleepwalk
and become sleep -flight
He flew right out of his
New
York state of mind
Two days ago, six cops emptied the con
tents of five nines and thirty -eight
The shots rang out for miles like
village vanguard horn blasts
Each note contemplating the fate of an
emcee who spoke in the bluest notes
And the future's hope dims by the light of
another star shot and slain
Two days later I'm riding
the 4 train uptown
This kid walks up to me and just
his earth -toned crochet crown
Says, brother, we living on borrowed time
You have to say shit else,
I seen it all go down
Like a silent film projected in his eyes
The kid was at the scene of
the cop's crime
Was the first to curve his
spine to the sky
I can pray for guidance and mercy
on the soul of the bluest note
Seen it with his own eyes,
I'm ridin' the uptown 4 train
Watchin' the bluest note's grave and
the exercise of a haunting harrowing
This kid's conscience, he says,
you know, it's no coincidence
He and
I's past should collide
Told me how he knew where one of those
murderous cops was tucked away, hide
Said he was headed that way,
was I down to ride
Man, the bluest note wrote time tied taut as the
turbulence of tumult in a tortured mind
She wrote about thunderclap
and clave for death as he rhymes
She wrote about destiny calling a new day,
spilling red wine to libate the sky
I told him I would honor her memory,
I was down to ride
I'd see him outside the cop spot at nine
Man, I checked the time
Seven became eight,
became cock nine
Clocked hands angled forty -five,
eye for eye
crochet crown gave the sign we made our approach
for diablo for timothy thomas my girl ayana the
blue was snowed and i i never
heard the shots ring out
i just know my intentions and forged a rope
I found myself swinging,
hung like si lence in space
Faceless fire, my faith
The shit activists don't mention
when they're
chanting slogans
The reality writers conjure
but never capturing
poems
The black blood surfing
the swells of the
streets like sea foam
Motivated by revenge,
I died looking crazy
and alone.
A marginal martyr.
A ghost floating down trumpets
and saxophones
eternally searching for the sound
of the bluest note.
This ain't funny,
so don't you dare laugh
This ain't funny,
so don't you dare laugh
Just another case about the wrong path
Just another case about
the wrong path
Straight