This ain’t no poem,
no protest song —

this is a meathook
with a long memory.

This is a bomb
with a meter. It explains

how things get done
with a ballistic microphone

and then runs
to fight another day

or gets caught and is choked to death
on its own verses

or vanishes in a hard flash
and a puff of voice.

This ain’t no poem
but a manual for locking

shackles tight as end rhyme,
ghazals full of righteous gallows.

This is not a protest song,
but melodic explosions

aimed at a target.
This meathook

has blood on it, 
has been whetted,

has been thirsty 
for a while now,

and recalls how it proclaimed
the roll of honor

the last time
it was trotted out

not just for
some academic show,

but in a renewal
of raw street joy.