Thursday, October 16, 2008

A Slice of Burnt Apple Pie by A. Dacosta Brathway

Well rounded fruit w/ a seedy core,
harvested & brought on ships
to bore...
to maintain cheap cost labor
& preserve the favor
of the mindset
of that time...
Looked upon as the
acceptable flavor
when cooked in the Southern ovens
of the cotton fields...
Baked just right
until the crust darkens
& hardens...
w/out pardons until the work is done!
False perceptions fed to like minds,
holding the image of a false Utopia,
living said lifestyle
as the juice drips slowly
from the cracks in between the crust
on the window sills of the big White House.
Sunday mornin' breakfast
is just the right time,
to quarter and make a point
to teach the lesson
by dividing the joints
& dispersed among the gods around the table
to enjoy the fruit of your labor
while you sing freedom songs in the mud
& mourn the loss of your religion & your manhood.

Funny how time just seals all wounds
but the pain still lingers as the experience
is all relative.
"Things are so much better!"
they say while you psychologically suffer,
all ignorant to your mental illness.
Back in the day you came from inventors,
now reduced to relentors
as your History escapes you because of your lack of focus,
watching the daze go by.
Used to be a welcomed sight,
indigenous & all,
now an eyesore as gentrification sets in.
The technology has replaced you
& is less labor intensive,
yet far more entertaining
'cause the "new sex" is on cable TV,
brought to you by BET
or whomever else is shooting
the new rump shaker video
& Master Bates indulges in the new taboo.

(c) A. Dacosta Brathway 2008

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