North Richmond, California
Black Sabbath
by Danté Clark
It will happen on the blink of a blind eye,
At the tip toed speech of an orphaned city.
When the manna cascades at the mouth of a food desert,
Washing over it’s thirst ‘nd ash like spring falls of honeydew;
Beckoning bones of street corners to arise,
From its drunken graves.
Un-withering its heart from the searing of redlined fires,
Kneeling at the soothing oil ‘nd promise of it’s skin.
To shine back lively again from a forgotten name.
How blessed will be the whispers of leaves,
That confesses the blood of the vine,
In the offshoot of its roots?
When the raspy soul of the trap house be wings to the wind,
Set free to hear its home born name in its native tongue.
May no front yard be left behind. May patio porch steps,
Be a gathering of new shoes ‘nd bbq blues,
Where copper colored fingers hold flowers to its face like a mirror,
Wearing vanilla scent under mango coated laughter.
Swaying rooftops as an open mic of funkadelic haikus,
Leaning forward at dusk to hear it’s fabric of sunset secrets.
For only these new moons won’t ever see a bullet,
Or snort the chemtrails of gunpowder.
Won’t ever witness the asphalt shiver,
Or swallow a salty cry again.
Night will be a friendly shoulder for the dreams to sink into,
Bringing dawn it’s daily bread where each prayer,
Deserves to be a full bellied sermon.
ABOUT THE ARTIST
Donté Clark is a poet, actor, and community activist from unincorporated North Richmond, California who works with youth organizations throughout the Richmond area. He served as one of five artist researcher partners in ThirdSpace’s Storied Communities, Community Stories project. Donté previously served as poet laureate of Richmond and appeared in Romeo Is Bleeding, Kicks, Code Switch, and The North Pole.
As the crown of the coil head ‘nd bronze footed seeds,
Be watered in the cocaine valleys of section 8,
Be sweet flicker to flame.
That chews through shadows of debt,
Where jim crows boots be food for the fire ‘nd brimstone,
After ghettos become 3rd day revivals.
Coughing up vouchers ‘nd rusted padlocks,
Shedding black gates from it’s memory.
I imagine the crooked smile of city streets,
Be renewed, wide toothed grinning,
Like hot boys passing a Texas sun by way of bayou.
When our sidewalks beam like a mouth full of gold teeth,
‘nd our eyes are no longer rosewood or a red summer.
I’d say glory be the day at the fingertips of the sky,
Who’s untied the noose from our ankles,
‘nd loosened the breath of our upside down pockets.
Swinging at the ears of summer Tuesdays testifying,
Of fresh paint on acres of garden bed rows like church pews.
When whole foods ‘nd sweet teas will be the gospel of us,
‘nd park slides will giggle with truth.
I want to be a front wheel wheelie,
Down the soul train line of our highways.
Rocking shea buttered locs crossfit crowned,
Like a helmet. Yea, here safety will be the air we breathe.
Our Jordan River journal we dip our sorrows,
Baptising our hood anthologies into a Black Sabbath.