Cascade me, into your purple literature.
Your leather-back magazines
playfully nicknamed Shakespeare.
No! Give me none of that.
Dogs and cats bark alike,
for the gray king who sits in his tower in heaven
weeping for the peace that hasn't come yet.
Don't think that I am alone in saying this.
The ruby eyed black man
on my street corner
passes my words like a bible salesman.
The little white boy
holding tight to his Arabic lover of silky olive and rose petal crimson.
There is a misogynist beside them
who screams out that he hates her
for her breasts
and her skin color
and the white boys fists clench.
What is it about her green dress that he finds so captivating
and so fierce.
Why is it so easy to kill?
To whisper sweet nothings
while you strike your dagger into the heart of the one that you love.
I see these lovers
and the misogynist.
I see the girl
her eyes searching for a way that she and her man can escape that mans words
without a fight.
Her eyes wander to mine
is all that I can give her.
baseball hand stroking the Arabic curls that surround him
during this angry free for all.
It is love that pulls him
from his shaky hand
and hard words
to the woman hater
who's going after me now.
And the Arabic girl
her hand in his
pulls love up and wither.
In her hands
he will go willingly.