I have/had a friend named Anthony
He's white, pretty nice school.
Has never been on food stamps to trademark his borderline poverty.
Works a part time job that doesn’t affect his straight A's at school.
He has time to do his chores, he has time he does not spend at funerals.
Grew up with kids who played with worms but didn’t grow up to treat people that way.
Never grew up on clothing price tags written in sharpie trademarking his empty pockets.
There is no history in his clothes, of washed out nosebleeds or again price tags written in sharpie.
BUT…
Is addicted to coke and bath salts and has had 80 beers to this day and it’s not his fault.
Yes I asked two very minority sources for the names of these "white people drugs".
Yes this addict denies addiction.
Knows there's a problem but can't call himself crackhead.
So we pray to his chemical god,
Yes he's white.
Let’s pray he runs into the cops.
And gets shot.
And he was shot in the back for resisting an arrest.
Now for the crazy part!
Does this story get harder to believe?
Or easier?
His veins are as empty as his pockets
That is not the part that unkills him.
As I type that into the computer, the computer tries correcting to “kill’ instead of "unkill". But i’m not supposed to think about that. Because Unkill isn’t in the dictionary, because that’s just impossible. But I digress.
His veins are as empty as his pockets,as empty as his tongue because sour skittles make it raw.
As raw as his white skinned knees.
As his throat is right about now.
Let’s not forget he’s white. This is just what he deserves as the law.
But it’s as raw as his moment
As raw as his smile and as raw as his laughter… was.
Let’s not forget the past tense here. 
It wasn't a binge day but he prayed to the chemical God to remove his pain.
A pain I’m not really sure we were around for, or have heard about enough yet,
Anthony is actually black. Now your perception changes.

I fail to be able to explain the miscommunication between this body and a cop.

I only meet so many people who are bothered by my smile. Or so many people with the misconception of my tongue and how it moves, how it decided to never stay still. Speaking in tongues as if they were twin shotguns.

As if it were my brothers.
Just for the way I love how they produce.
How you produce, how you flame up the frame work to a history that has no comfort in cotton… clothes
How you design and line these suicidal bars like the thoughts in his mind,
As I rely on grandpa’s watch
Like i'm lost in the times. 

How he’s taught me to master and survive these stampedes,
So... maybe it's the way I run away from this cop, it's that I am a citizen, an untrained citizen. Expected to remain calm.

My mistake, this whole ordeal is not about the cop, the trained cop. Expected to wave his gun in my face. Expecting him not to shoot me.

NO WAIT, I got it. It must be the way I write about the cop. About the conversations these bodies are forced to have with the side walk. When they're cuffed.

Police after all make such great poets,
All of the vague attention to detail.
All inside a perfect storm of events.
How there’s a ALWAYS a deeper meaning. That most of us don’t get.
Show, not tell.
So if i die, cremate me
Please leave my ashes somewhere on the west side of somewhere popular. Or don’t.
Too many Norths, and Souths and Wests, and Easts, our East, has seen us become the end of a furnace.

So Young You, when they ask for your papers show them the "inaccuracies" of your skin, and if they look at you like they didn't like the joke, tell them it's the only thing they look at anyways.

And when you get home, when you walk in after the shower of racial slurs and dead looks  from the neighborhood, wash off the shame, tell me how foreign your tears are, get back outside and wave your flag like they didn't hurt you.

Like the sun is gonna wait on you tomorrow, like the only thing I wanna know about you is what language you laugh in.
Because I have grown to love, watching you bloom, over and over again,
So I leave this revolution up to you and your body, let them know that in you there's too much boxing ring in, dance like your feet will shape the concrete like playdough. Like benevolence is also your native tongue Like your smile is Something that can never be over dreamed. Daydream like you're not allowed to do it at night anymore.
People are gonna stare anyway.