POLITICAL Poem: My focus, by Marq Buisson

Ceci I love you
this can be answered by a quick question to Mr. Meseeks,
from Rick and Morty.

You make my heart beat,
Just a young kid from the burbs like Phineas and Ferb
speaking of beats,
should learn more about seasoning meats
from Grandma.

She truly now’s about cooking.

I was a young blood looking to this knowledge
you can’t find in college as a kid

Grandma desired me to be a preacher
as the tipping point to being a teacher.

Given me her old bible with many tails
that can give way to many trails

Some may call it a fable but I call it a label, of creating
a desire for black american guidance.

In other words the Stripes of everything including the wordage from their very lips for centuries.

However it wasn’t all bad. Nat Turner and Dr. King turned the true meaning of indoctrination into a proclamation.

The struggle of a people to breath this was so difficult they were by their own spirits forcing them to leave,

On the great migration trail along with my Grandma.

She went to New York where she found her true lover and partner, the people who would birth my mother.

He’s name was Percival,
he was quite mercival,
taking care of my mother and his new wife, my grandmother,
having to learn the lingo and way of the gringo.

Great aunt stayed in 50’s South Carolina with her husband and twelve children,
quiet her Job as a maid
to become a stay at home mother.

Great Uncle’s job paid much better, back in the day when American blue working did not equate to economical blues.

Looking for clues
for where the next meal ticket is coming from.
Trying not to become an American bum.

Since the government cares more about sovereign oil
to even care to toil
in the people noticing the lie of the american dream.

But what can one say when the dream is built of the Black
nightmare,
the lack
of aid,
forcing them to engage in catching a fade.

The process of social integration into mainstream white america
allowed for de facto legislation.

A new set of strangling chains in a metaphorical sense,
quite rhetorical,
because neo Jim Crow is in,
even the honorable Dr. MLK Jr. couldn’t have seen
this.

The level the fiend
would go to recapture the people they see as their stepping stones, the ones who built it,
making this country truly lit.

Everyone from 37, triple six 40, 42, 45, 46.

Before these number took might
of white house power a bill
to fill up connections to the burbs with mild wide
highways allowing them to tie to the cities as a guide.

White flight took a hold on the cities,
stripping black neighborhoods.

Tipping
them into abstract poverty,
flipping

stability into chaos.

The mold,
being eminent domain,
to clear the plain for the roads to firmly hold.

Loads of people left along with business.

37 got exposed desiring to connect drugs to blacks and the anti war movement,
Either way he was soon deposed.

Hands
dirtier than we thought with his paws on the highest office in all the lands.

40 gave military grade weapons to the police,
a simple ask and it was laid at there feets,
in order to use it on these redlined streets.

Allowing Contra Crack
The wack
stuff was allowed to trap
another Generation in some more post de jure racial crap.

Before 46 was 46 he was a senator,
his mentor, the last
segregationist,
his head stuck in a reactionary past

Creating bills to disproportionately criminalize the drug
to lug in new free labor.

13th amendment allows slavery
in prison, a new bravery
will have to form
to avoid these cynical American versions of a dorm.

46 also helped with 42,
a new
crime
bill
that was about to spew
arrests at the drop of a dime.

Like baseball, three strike your out.

Huh funny aint it?

State greed
in exchange for a little crack and weed.

Now we get to 45,
he’s what my grandmother would call an open racist,
something she said was different moving forth
to the north.

A man who got the white blue
collared class
glued
to his shoe.

Pointing blame
at everyone in the frame,
like a modern George Wallace,
which is quite lame,
but definitely not tame.

Policies like 42’s NAFTA deal,
took opportunity out the common man’s meal

45 was helped by the democratic establishment.

The tools,
put out clueless fools
like 42’s wife.

She was a goldwater girl, he despised the 64 civil right bill,
as you can see this lady is surrounded by everything ill.

But wait it gets worse,
she called black people super predators.

Well what can be expected by someone trained by a high ranker in the demonic band known as the ku klux klan.

They’re all connected like a spider web
laying down in the same racist fucking bed.

Sorry I got of track getting all political,
But hay the truth can be dark and cynical.

The point is granny had it rough,
history folding
and molding.

Ironically she now lives in the burbs with her family,
where she can be fed
and ask us to get her meds.

History of America,
Isn’t it just a land
full of a consistent grand
plan
for its builders?

Granny’s old and happy,
but she sure can be quite bold
like her sister.

Looking at her cooking as a wild
little child,
will always be nice,
glad she was able to get out of the systemic
vice that tried to give her every kind of lice.

Love is a funny thing it swarms me
like a dove
does to the sky,
as free as the endless blue that surrounds it.
no chains
or lanes in sight.

But check it, let’s get back to the love,
the lingo of this so called poem,
the move
to the grove

Grandma is a rider a true soldier for helping out the family,
god blessed her,
to not make sure her body never become messed up.

Its as if God
came with a mode.

Love is strong.

So as before
I want to lore Ceci into my desire,
I admire,
from what I see of her she is quiet but not a liar.

A sweet brown haired girl pal as a ghost,
but what can I say a rip piece of tail,
to chase until I possibly fail.
But I shall never bail from my goal,
either of em,
the political, family or love,
that I’ll shove
like a soaring dove