death is amongst us -- like a poem. but not.

so i finally talked to my grandmother.
and the story is fukn disgusting.
and so normal for young black men in my hometown,
to experience a death this brutal.


for jimani...

my cousin is dead. period.
his lifestyle was an occupational hazard.
it says so in the handbook.
unfortunately, there are no rules to follow
when telling his 5 kids that daddy is gone.

and how to we find the words to tell his eldest
son, that was shot as well during this shooting;
who watched his father's body fall filled with lead
and less breath than when he woke up that morning;
how do we tell them?

his wife is a widow.
his son will have to look in the mirror
and study the wound that presented itself
the same day his father departed.

his daughter's will walk wedding aisles without him.
they have red hair, a trait unrecognizable to our family
and adored by him. it was as if they had gold woven thru
their tresses. he is gone. no longer able to give them
piggy back rides. or rap them songs about his dreams
as an artist.

my cousin was an artist. he had the lyrical dexterity of
a great emcee. he was disguised as a hot boy.
caught between doing what everyone thought he
should do - and what he knew best.
he was taken from a family that loved him
before weddings and highschool graduations.
before weddings and grandkids.
before his time...
before this all made sense
before anyone could grab a handle on peace of mind.