OK, Kid
you have the right to be angry
I mean living in Detroit isn’t easy
and this war on terrorism
has everyone uneasy
but I’m afraid what it boils down too
is who to rob and who to cheat
granted you have known
your share of pain and despair
but there are thousands of men
in prison who live inside their insides
move like smoke in the dark
play with minds like a molester in the park
men labeled as outlaws by  the keepers
of the State
men who have seen idols weep
men butchered and bled in their sleep
so forgive me, Kid
for not living up to  your expectations
the sad truth is I’ve been killed
a hunded times in my sleep known
the power and guns of an unfeeling State
and religious zealots filled with hate
angry, me Kid?
you best believe it
who else could write such things
and pass it off as poetry
it must be these hazel eyes
eyes that have seen grown men cry
and one too many friends die
Ok, Kid, I’ll confess
it’s true there aren’t many of us left
and those who are
are forced to look back
ever fearful of a new generation of vipers
the truth is one gets you dead
the other crippled or maimed
and when is the last time
you held your head in shame?
look, Kid it’s getting late
and I’m slipping into another gear
morning will soon be here
and I’m running out of beer
soon it will be time to get out
and prove myself all over again
prove I’m human and able
to withstand the programmed
thrusts at my soul

I hope for  your sake Kid
that when your time comes
you’re up to the challenge
no reason for me
to rant or rave like this
there’s a black bird on my balcony
and life is pure bliss
like waiting on the godfather’s kiss

look, Kid don’t worry
I’m only kidding
it’s all one big shuck
I really don’t give a fuck
I’m as gentle as they come
bring me a bible and I’ll swear on it
no shit just me Dillinger and you
what it really boils down too
is who to rob and who to pray with
this anger that bounces off my skull
like a wrecking ball
all these causes so damn many causes
and my friends all lined up
like torn scraps of paper tossed
into the trash can marching
to the tune of another man’s band
beginning to sound familiar
a cliché you say
hell, Kid
what did you expect
an original poem?


One Response to “POEM FOR THE KID I DISAPPOINTED by A.D. Winans”

  1. Al, as you know I read this. Excellent poem!

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