African-American Crisis

by Papa Osmubal

I ain’t got nothing, buddy.
Nothing at all: my job applications all being turned down 
for my insufficient education.  (Or is it for the color of my skin?)
I do not think PhD is required just to clean toilets, buddy.
Am prohibited to slumber in the streets that are my only home.
What would everything be like if the president were darker?
The president, my president, has no slight idea about what befalls me.
Or maybe he has but could not speak out for unknown reasons.
Maybe he has no colored voice?
I confess, buddy, I elected him and he just bullshits my vote.
He did not complain of the rough touch of my palms 
when he shook hands with me during the campaign.
He even hugged me which made me remember my long gone mom.
Now he is as unreal as myth, a mere TV icon.
Tonight I get myself some dope, buddy,
and intrude my poor old neighbor’s house
for me to get good meals and bed-space in the prison.
In Jesus’ name I do that, buddy.
I swear to God I do that, buddy.

African-American Crisis by Papa Osmubal

© Copyright 2005. All rights reserved. No portion of this work may be duplicated or copied without the expressed written consent of the author.

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