I Cry Genocide

Did you know failing to preserve
our own history of struggle is like a
leaking faucet hemorrhaging the
life force of our humanity into
dust?

And, the world is silent, although
the howling cry of the grim reaper
screeches the eerie gurgling of our
ancestors, drowning their dreams
deferred into the fathomless abyss
of our ancient history, as today’s
politicians apply bleaching cream
in their representations of our
collective interest.

They will not AID us because He Is
vying (HIV) against us in a mass
decimation of us, to recapture and
rape our land, and replace us.


Mother Afrika is in her death throes,
and they throw at us nothing but
their disgust, void of trust, while
activist fuss over whose program is
a salvation for our oppressed nation.

Manifest  destin is affirmed in U.S.
prisons where the exception clause
in the 13th Amendment ensures human
slavery continues.  The conspiracy
is constant, as they continue to
collaborate,  contriving  conniving
codes to penalize and incapacitate,
to incarcerate at a rate that seeks
to annihilate our future in
incremental cremations in a furnace
fueled by racial hate…names being
replaced by numbers on the assembly-
line of judicial jaundice, as the
gavel bangs in racist haste so the
victim can be pronounced to a fate
of ill-consequences, shipped like
chattel to a place where self-imposed
ignorance reigns in mirrors reflecting
misery undistorted.

Genocide I cry from a place where my word
are mimic in the cacophony of an ancient
echo that has been weakened by distance
from then to now, our memory forgotten.
what it meant to have been a slave to an
ideal not of our own…identifying
with those who do not have our interest
at heart.

Genocide I cry, as 1 million New Afrikans
lives are caged with inverted rage,
unable to reproduce – we can only deduce
is a plan to ultimately reduce our numbers,
to replace those who are unable to ascend,
caught in fratricide blunders of mental
death expedited by corporate hype to
obey your blood-thirst in uncontained
rage of a soul not at rest, contaminated
with seemingly eon’s of imposed self-
hate.

Genocide I cry from a tormented soul
who needs soldiers like God need Angels
to beat back the beast.  To beat back
a history of brutality etched across
the middle passage in Afrikan blood.
Battalions standing on guard armored
in gold-plated God consciousness, trimmed
in platinum Black love.

The kind of love where my life and that
of my family is sacred to you as your’ s
are to me.



Black love that moves in uniform as
an army  of one to restore, preserve
and defend what we know is part of our
collective unconsciousness in need of
unveiling.

A Black love that enlightens in a battle
for the future – so we will never need
to again cry genocides.

@ 2005                                    JALIL