"It Isn't Ready," A Weird Catastrophe Poem

                                                                   It Isn’t Ready

                         I’ve written you a rolled up book inside my head
                         regarding our colored lives, and in fact the very future
                         failure of our movement

                         it’s a bleak work,
                         bleak and tired
                         and too heavily reliant on the thoughts of others
                         and the thoughts of you
                         without the proper historical context
                         of how we once traipsed through pink rose bushes
                         and got cut up by the thorns
                         but we sure did fuck up some of those busybody ladies
                         who watched us from their silken windows 
                         lamenting their pruning jobs

                         I couldn’t really try to tell you the whole sordid story
                         or even attempt to write it down one bit at a time

                         but you should remember it anyway,
                         you were there after all

                         it’s a waste,
                         the days have been quietly sneaking past us
                         and we haven’t been able to grab ahold of one of them
                         since the last time we really fucked up those rose bush ladies

                         I’ll tell you it is a good book though, floating around,
                         regardless of what’s happened to us since then.
                         I hope we have some shared lines.

                         let me know if you ever catch one of those bastard days 
                         again,

                         I’d like to help you kill it
                         and leave it bleeding out for the birds. 

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