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(Intro to Omari’s Poetry Section)

Okay, Okay
U get ur rocks off
gawking at this soul of mine
I willingly
expose in rhyme.
Mm-hm, mm-hm, fine.
spike through ur hearts?
Sorry to say,
This world of mine is 2-way—
things go out
and things come inn-nnnn.
no propping your feet up,
popcorn in hand
sucking me through a straw.
You gluts!
Spread da wealth!
And da health,
Not just your guts.
Ever see a mosquito drink so much
It couldn’t fly?
Ur hunger pains should tell u why.
Ur why birth pangs inside,
Waiting 2 BE
Born but
U have 2 open up
and give it away.
Ur seeds belong 2 2morrow.
Harvest 2day
What you say. Sow,
Sow unto me what was naught
Urs or mines
When I wrote mine rhymes.

U don’t have to be a poetry expert. Just tell me what your initial emotional response was.
Did it spark some memories? What did it remind you of? Ur darkest nightmare? Did you
hate it? Share your rage. Perhaps you liked the cadence, It’s pace? The rhyme scheme?
The word play? What do you say? Sow…
After yall do yalls thing. I might come back and explain a few things about the piece I
made. What it means to me.

Sow ur Seeds/Rate my poetry


My hand reveals
ancient signs
ancient rhymes
I secure
reaching into
da ancient depths of my mind.
Mind time
Moves quicker than
thine, sinking quicker in quicksand.
Quick San!
She’s quicker than
da universe made SanReg.
so what are you eating?
Burger king, Mickey D’s, or Wendy’s?
When D’s
Value plummets
Head over tails
telling tells
of da head
who valued less
our human life
and moooooore…
the expansion of his
U Men
Still needs
toproclaim your
not endure, emasculation.
Your mass is accumulating
as the wealth of the wealthy
2% of dis nation.
and tears
after years and years—
changed in two
is everything you is
po’, po’, po’.
You just remembered
Ho, ho, ho!
is around da corner.
So what you gonna
do then?
Give up your mama and your daughter
just to buy gifts
I hear that whip
Came from the slice in your skin
burning bright red
like crack pipes
with your
pipe dreams,
chasing slice after slice.
You pie-friend!
“Find by me.”
You are what you eat!
you all but asleep!
You all betta keep
Your sickness to yourselves;
But hell, yall breed fast.
Fast asses!
While orphan children
Starve in Africa.
Yeah, it still exist
ova your rainbow
that you’ll neva touch
dancing like a fool
Dance Fool!
beside a pot of fools gold.
“Ooooooo,”says the crowd.
I’m speaking to yall too!
‘til yall blue,
like me,
and black
from this bat.
Jus’ call me…
Like Morgan Freeman,
Cuz this is MY Eastside High,
I’m taking it back!
Teaching you songs
Or you might as well jump.
Jump! Damnit!
Cuz da stockmarkets your god.
You destined to fall;
Destined to crawl;
dragging your balls
cuz youre definitely chained.
2 million encaged?!!
But it ain’t a shame,
Cuz you’re ashamed of being alive;
a live part of the social-body.
You’re AID’S!
You’re taking your own life!
Anti-bodies unite!
But they label us socialist!
They label us anti-social men!
They label us!
‘til the truth lies
under a pile of lies.
Its been “9-11!” on our lives
since the Mayflower glided
ova violent waters
like in the beginning:
“let there be light.
As long as the light
has the might, then it’s right.
“To da left, to da left,”
If you don’t like.
“You leftist and liberals are all alike!”
So fight!
Barack Obama, fight!
But I’m less concerned about skin tone.
We need an ideology shift,
Or we might
Lose our lives tonight.
The assasins bullet
has taken on a life of its own.
They ride wit da chrome;
Strapped wit media outlets;
hollow-pointed subliminal messages
to your dome.
I got a damn chrome too!
Harriet Tubman’s unborn.
I can go on, and on
singing my song:
The sun rises in the East
and sets in the west!
The sun rises when you see
and sets when you rest!

Welcome to Eastside High.


You all ‘bout the stupidest fools

that I’ve ever seen!!!
Now you have to “suit it up!”
Spewing gas through our cage-screens.
Can’t break what you can’t see.
Tried to experiment with a different gas,
and my Luga* didn’t choke nor plead.
But your 5-pig team, with their gas mask on
couldn’t stop puking up spit.
And when my Luga came out
he still had the breath
to protest the acts of these sadists.
And all for what?
The unwarranted taking of all his property?!!
When you’re really trying to suppress
his voice by preventing his corresponding
with the masses;
giving verbal lashes to yalls asses,
and the classes,
educating The People of what’s really happenin’- -
The Death Penalty Fashion.
Worn like a fur-coat by materialistic fascist
‘cause it’s cash man.
The Government is being payed
to vitually cut our throats
by The People’s cash and
those taxes won’t be coming back
in Social Security - -
it’s Social Security.
The People are secured
in an unsecured state
mentally, economically, and politically….
the harmony
In the flow of the Amerikan Machine
“We don’t give them what they’re worth,
We’ll give them what they’ll accept”
is the Amerikan creed;
the only way they’ll pocket the green.
Can’t you see
this vicious cycle?
The Amerikan system
needs an oppressed class
to fed the oppressors capital.
Hell, we’re the capital…
who built a symbol for Amerikan capital:
The amerikan Capital.
Where the capital lies
to capitalize
for the status quo.

* Luga is Swahili for “brother.” This piece was composed when my Luga, Haramia, was
gassed for refusing to “collude” to his own murder.

-- Omari Huduma.



I’m a Man,
at least now.
Though in my eyes,
I have yet to reach its height.
I’m a Man nonetheless,
Because I aggressively attack
my ego
like an urban-guerilla
in camouflage fatigues,
hanging upside down from a tree,
waiting on it to make its way
around my corner.
Other times,
I lie in wait in the bushes
For the ambush.
“The change I seek
starts with self.”
So, I’m engaged in a revolution
A relentless,
loyal soldier.
A man.

There’s a coward
hiding from me,
in me,
my scope is looking for—
he’s not gon run no more!
No more wrapping itself in
complacent comforters.
No more
running from its humanity.
An utter coward,
scared to express Love,
his own essence,
the sustenance for creation.
But sometimes
the predator gets preyed upon;
and before I realize it,
I’m taking the coward’s way,
running from the light
into the dark crevices of my mind,
‘til I realize
I’m the one with the gun!
But I realize.
And that’s what makes me
A Man.

The other day,

A comrade asked me,
“do you need anything?”
I said, “a hug.”
Yet, it’s beyond that.
Though I’m a realist,
understanding the ramifications
of my confinement,
I can’t take the coward’s way.
I must say,
I need affection,
a woman’s caress, and
I want to be held,
with my waves rubbed
‘til I fall asleep.
Then, awaken,
sometimes held,
not always doing the holding.
Bottles of hot water
line my bunk,
like a woman,
between me and the frozen
keeping me warm at night.
Awakening to a frozen Warden and Major
who feel I should die
before the state takes my life.

Life is more than

merely breathing—
it’s feeling,
feeling in places never known,
with feelings never owned.

is why my captors
can’t get me to follow their “rules.”
I’m a Man.



Chemical-agents and
smoke from trash-fires
sit and stare,
hanging in the air--
a smoggy-spectator;
while my skin does the cheering,
'cause there has to be an audience in my skin
my anger into rage.
my home-made face-mask shielded that swing
A swing they thought
would penetrate deep
through my black-meat;
through my black-beat,
breaking my black-drum.
But drum-Man
my oppressors can't see.
My technology's
beyond their expertise,
like the Pyramids--
in perfect Light,
with righteous sight.
"No weapon formed against me shall" suffice.
I fight with a might,
beyond "sight-beyond-sight."
Ready to explode,
an Ebony nuclear-payload.

by the flames of


I can’t let you

kill my brother.
I can’t let you
KILL my brother.
I can’t
Let you kill MY brother.
Open this damn cage door!!!
Open it damnit!
Let my brother go!
Let ‘em go!
…I can’t.
Let you kill my brother.
That was MY BROTHER.
You sick ma-fuckahs!
YOU killed!

--Omari Huduma


NOTHING has changed—

I can still hear
Soulful groans, mothers’ cries,
As their children, ripped away from them,
Are taken for a “lil ride.”

Lynchings continue…
Disguised and revolutionized under a guise
Of justice, but look into Their eyes
And you’ll see
Smiling faces saying “Burn ‘em alive!”

Only now
And “burning” is suffocation,
And the “cross” is made of steel;
Horizontally laid, surrounded by glass
So They can congregate, and still watch
A color’d be killed.

It’s a drawn out process—

Approximately 6 years is what it takes;
For this type of death comes extremely slowly.
They drain the taxpayers dry,
While they say the appeal process is owed to me.

They have to make it look good!

They don’t want society to start having thoughts
That They’re snatching Us off the streets,
Doing to Us what was done to the Arawaks.

So what do we have?
Millions of dollars
Being drained from You for political gain.
Your money that’s supposed to be used for our appeals
Is being rechanelled to the State Treasury’s veins.*

Let’s go back a lil ways

To the time of “old” slavery.
Any enslaved person that resisted
Was made an example
To their families and all other potential resistors
When dismembered, with their body parts trampled.

The shock value of such a scene was profound—

Instant subjugation by the mere sight.
And they’re still being barbaric to subjugate a class
By this revolutionized dismembering of lives.

Comparing the past to the present—

Death Row inmates’ families
Are afflicted by the same psychological warfare.
And by it, these families are thrown
Into a state of bewilderment;
An oppressive tool to suppress the fight they have left.

So, the fight is taken out of the families,

While their children are taken for the slaughter,
And used for the accumulation of money.
While the government pockets those tax-payed dollars.

As our society’s morale evolved,

So did the system’s, superficially
So that Their means of profit won’t be taken away.
They’ve sugar- coated what’s ordinarily repulsive.
Executions and Lynchings, it’s all the same.

By Reginald “Omari Huduma” Blanton


There is no “I”
lest it’s a Roman numeral—
uni vs.
I’ve merged into the
international communal vision;
from the teary eyes of
Tanzanian children
the indigenous people of this capitalist nation.
Our resistance is more than
the Death Penalty’s abolition.
For our Third World brethren
will NEVER BE free unless
oppressed Americans
Dis-United States is
the impoverisher of Third World nations.
Our obligation:
To attack oppression
wherever it’s drinking.
This imperialist mosquito
has injected
Americans with anesthetic material possessions,
while guzzling
our blood, the lives of our brethren.
WE have to see the connections,
the Middle Passages
our oppressors are still traveling.
If you can’t, or don’t want to see them,
here’s my question:
If this government doesn’t make you a victim,
whether here, or in another nation,
does your silence or in-action make you
a perpetrator of international oppression?
Draw the connections.


She has never cried so hard, so utterly, in her life. She cries as if her life depended on it.
In fact, lives do depend on it. Dark, angry clouds haven’t even known raindrops the size
of her tears. O’ the hurt. Her gapping mouth frowns with wails from her agony. I
haven’t realized how my face contorts from the mere sight, the mere sight of…my
wound. I’ve been wounded by the mistreatment of Humanity who sits curled up like an
abused child, precious child, in the corner of our souls, neglected by the US; neglected by
the STATE; neglected by this administration; and what hurts—o’ it hurts—even more,
neglected by my fellow death row prisoners, whose faces turn away from this child
because they feel they don’t deserve her. And when they turned their confused faces
with tears in their eyes, it ripped a hold through my flesh; one so profound, I can peer
through it to my Soul, to that child, the child that cries.

I lay wounded in the ditch of my cage, left to die, this child and me. Passerbyshear
the cries from my wound—their reflection, but they refuse to face themselves, passing US
by. My wound cries for US, which means YOU. The child in me, in US, needs YOU. WE
can heal, but it must be TOGETHER; I can’t do it alone,

…My wound is bleeding my Soul.

please don’t pass US by.


©2008 by S. Stafford & Reginald Blanton. All text, pictures and graphics are copyrighted. Text, Picture, and graphics,
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