Hate can teach a lot of things (I'll write more on that later). Here's a poem about Malcolm and the other stuff, the loss of an innocence we never had, and the horror of realizing that.

::::::::

I re-watched Malcolm X last night:

I cried again: it wasn't a fluke.

Denzel, my man, playing the Man with No Name.

Best role since He Got Game.

Less you count Fallen, where he fights Azazel,

with all the little fingerfuckers on the loose,

black cats everywhere -- vamoose!

(Too close to home. I triggered.

Wouldn't let my catty wife touch me.)

Great soundtrack: I forgot that.

Billy, and Sam E. Cooke, and jazz riffs

A change is gonna come. Unh-huh.

And honking saxophones in sorrow for a Harlem

filled with junkies and pimps and Toms.

Mighty Whitey sniggering on the sidelines.

By any means necessary.

By any means necessary.

Babylon must fall. Fall down. Go boomboom.

It's all now the Harlem Malcolm scathed at.

Lady Liberty's a harlot, drinks Drano, see Taxi Driver.

We're fresh outta you-talkin-to-me mirror scenes.

Anti-heroes everywhere -- too much savoir faire. You ask me.

Gotta glutta Yale girls on their knees though.

Hillary peeking through the keyhole at excess.

This year, or next:

Vote Trump

and end it all.

Then we can all caterwaul

together.

Y'all.

Authors Website: https://tantricdispositionmatrix.substack.com/

Authors Bio:

John Kendall Hawkins is an American ex-pat freelance journalist and poet currently residing in Oceania.